


I'll Always Protect You

by Bethalous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Getting Together, M/M, Original Characters - Freeform, Vampire Lestrade, Vampires, Warnings May Change, eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-19
Updated: 2014-04-05
Packaged: 2018-01-16 07:29:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 22,066
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1337089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bethalous/pseuds/Bethalous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gregory Lestrade has been London's guardian for a very long time. When tasked with helping an old friend and watching Sherlock, he may just have to reveal his darkest secret in order to protect the person he cares for most in the world. To keep his love safe, he may just have to sacrifice everything else.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic so be gentle. Any comments are appreciated though. All mistakes are my own.  
> Tiny trigger warning for this first chapter - use of the word "rape" but no details or anything. Just the word really.
> 
> Inspired by another writer's words: "There should be more Vampire AU's." I agree.  
> Set after Series 3 ends but AU as Mary never got pregnant.

Looking out from the rooftop, the last lights of London gleamed in the dark. Shadows ruled this time of night but the man standing on the edge, watching the city, had little to fear. He was one of the shadows that reigned over the night. He was also the one that had set this meeting place and only an idiot chose a location that made them vulnerable.

“Detective Inspector,” a voice called behind him. “I take it you bring news.”

Turning around, Lestrade took in the sight of Mycroft Holmes. Even now, in the darkness where only the brave and stupid ventured, he was immaculately dressed and carried his umbrella. Lestrade eyed it distrustfully. It reminded him too much of the rapiers men used to hide in their canes, and it didn’t help that the point was mahogany with only the end dipped in metal.

“If I didn’t I wouldn’t be here, ya know,” he replied shortly. A raised eyebrow in reply caused him to sigh.

“Sorry,” he said, “It’s been a long few days. Meeting with the Council always stresses me out. You know how much they hate me.”

“As you tell me every time you meet with them, I do believe myself to be suitably informed.”

“You’re an arse, Mycroft. Did you know that?”

“Just tell me what you have learned Gregory, and then we can both retire to preferred settings.”

Lestrade sighed again. He hated having to work with Mycroft but as the oldest supernatural in London he had little choice. Mycroft was the just the latest, and smartest (though he’d never admit that), of many humans he had worked with to ensure that London was safe for all creatures. As the Council’s representative here, it also meant that he had to report problems back forth, but he hadn’t had to go to the actual Council House in decades.

“It isn’t good news,” he murmured. Mycroft stepped up beside him and they both turned to look out over the city.

“I am a grown man, Gregory. I will survive,” Mycroft said sardonically.

“He was turned,” Lestrade replied bluntly. The man next to him stiffened minutely but it didn’t escape Lestrade’s sharp eyes.

“Continue,” Mycroft spoke, his voice hoarser than before.

“They believe it to be Ronan. There is no proof of course but he is the only one that would dare to try and force me from London. He was always the most against my accession of this position.”

“And so he turned a psychotic criminal in the hope to…what exactly?”

“Either kill me or force the Council to remove me from London is my guess.”

“Neither of which is likely to work. You are far too stubborn to leave **or** die.”

Lestrade snorted in amusement. It was true after all, though it did help that he was a vampire old enough to rival the head of the supernatural council.

“The reason doesn’t really matter though,” he said, returning to the sombre mood. “What matters is that Ronan is running from the Council and it seems he doesn’t actually have control of his latest project.”

Silence fell while this information was processed. Lestrade enjoyed the respite and took the time to listen to the sounds of the city.

Cars. People. Fights. Celebrations. Rape.

He frowned at the last one. He knew as a police officer that he couldn’t prevent all crimes, and that his job as London’s guardian (Ha. That made him sound like a superhero or something.) was more about making sure humans didn’t learn that the supernatural existed…but still. Hearing a crime always made him antsy to stop it. _After Mycroft. Then I’ll stop it. I need to feed anyway._

“This is grave news.” Mycroft’s voice brought him back to himself.

“I plan to hunt him,” Lestrade said boldly.

“That would be best. You probably have a greater knowledge of London than even Sherlock,” Mycroft complimented. Lestrade tried not to preen. He wasn’t anyone’s lap dog but getting a compliment from a Holmes was exceedingly rare.

“There is a problem however,” he said haltingly. He didn’t really want to tell Mycroft this as it was none of his business but it did affect their joint interests.

“Another one?” Mycroft asked, sounding bored. He had got the information he had come for and did not wish to spend more time than necessary on a roof with Gregory Lestrade.

“Yes. I’m needed in Paris urgently. You know I hate to leave London and as I’ve only just returned I am hesitant but this can’t be put off.”

“And what of London’s latest living-dead? I couldn’t stop him when he was human; he will have to be your responsibility now.” Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him again, conveying his disdain at Lestrade’s plans.

“I know all that!” he snapped back.” “I’m not shirking my duties.”  

“Aren’t you?” Mycroft asked pointedly. Lestrade snarled and fought off a smirk when the other man took a small step away from him.

“I don’t believe my leaving will be a problem. I’ll only be gone a few days anyway.”

Mycroft still looked wary – well – his equivalent of wary.

“I wouldn’t leave if I thought there would be trouble. You know that,” Lestrade said consolingly. Mycroft nodded in agreement. He did know that.

“I take it you will begin your hunt when you return?”

“Definitely. I'm going to enjoying ripping off his head.”

They shared a smile, their hidden bloodlust revealed.

“Are sure it is safe for you to go?” Mycroft couldn’t help but ask. “You know I worry for more than just the safety of London.”

Lestrade let out a deep breath. He knew what Mycroft was really worried about; he was worried as well.

“Yes. I don’t believe he’ll make a move yet. He’ll use this time to build tension, scare people into acting rashly.”

“And Sherlock? You do not think Moriarty will make a move on him?”

“Not yet. My guess, he’ll drive Sherlock mad with wondering; is this case because of him? When will he act? Where is he now? You’ll need to keep a close eye on him. Though I doubt Moriarty will do anything, Sherlock’s a loose cannon, **and** others may hurt him out of fear.”

Mycroft now let out a sigh and Lestrade fought the instinct to offer comfort.

“With this new information, I worry about him here without you.”

“I'm not gonna start babysitting him! He barely tolerates my presence as it is.”

“But he can count on you and go to you. I know he doesn’t but now is not the time for him to be unprotected in London.”

“Well, what do you plan to do?” Lestrade tried very hard not to raise his voice. He didn’t need to be overheard (not that it was very likely) arguing on a rooftop with the British Government. It would raise far too many questions.

“Why, send him with you of course.”

“What?!” he screeched – in a totally manly manner.

“It makes sense,” Mycroft replied, pulling out his phone and beginning to walk away. “If he goes to Paris with you, you can keep an eye on him and Moriarty is less likely to act here in London because the object of his obsession won’t witness it.”

“I'm not going to Paris to play babysitter! I have business that an ignorant human can’t be involved in!”

“I am sure Sherlock and John will keep themselves entertained while you work.”

“Sure they will. They’re bound to find some trouble. Wait, Sherlock and John?”

“Of course. My brother cannot go without his blogger.”

“And Mary?”

“I am sure she will not begrudge the Baker Street boys a few days together.”

Lestrade wanted to snap and tell Mycroft exactly what he thought of all this but forced the anger down. It was a good plan, for Sherlock would be safer in Paris. No one wanted to kill him there. Probably.

“Fine. I’ll organise it so that they stay in the same place as me but you have to get us all tickets. **And** tell your brother that he has to leave London.”

“ Very well,” Mycroft said, tapping out a final command into his phone. “I will send you the details Gregory.”

“Yeah, you do that,” Lestrade muttered, as Mycroft left the roof. He stayed where he was for a while, watching Mycroft’s car pull away and drive him home. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and allowed the sounds of the city to flow around him again.

Cars. People. Fights, Celebrations. Silence.

He opened his eyes, his prey located, and jumped.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Going with the idea that Lestrade helped Sherlock through his drug phase pre-John. Also gave him slight aerophobia.

Lestrade looked up from his paperwork as he heard voices approach his office but turned back to his report as he recognised them. He should have expected these two as soon as he got the email from Mycroft.

“Lestrade! Tell me you can explain my brother’s need to remove me from the country.”

He raised his head as Sherlock entered, John close behind him.

“Nice to see you too.”

“There is no time for pleasantries. I only came here to see if you were involved in my hurried departure to France.”

Lestrade ignored him and sent John a bemused look instead. The ex-soldier smiled in return and opened his mouth to speak but he was cut off.

“Well, Inspector? Do you have anything to say that is actually useful to me?” Sherlock stared at him, both expectantly and in a way that implied that he didn’t believe there to be an affirmation. Lestrade let out a heavily put upon sighing, causing John’s grin to widen and Sherlock to huff. As the younger man turned to sweep back out, he spoke.

“Yes, actually, I do.”

Sherlock spun around, impatient to hear what he had to say. John too seemed to perk up at the idea of his friend’s mood being put to rest.

“I have to meet a friend in Paris. For some reason your brother has decided that you can’t be trusted in London without a friendly officer around and so I'm being forced to babysit.” Lestrade sat back in his chair, lifting his feet up onto the desk, and waited for the shouting to begin. John stepped slightly away from Sherlock, also preparing for the fallout. The detective however, just blinked and stood completely still. Lestrade and John exchanged looks of worry.

“Sherlock?” John queried. “Are you okay?”

Sherlock seemed to shake himself before answering. “Of course I am. Well then Inspector, we’ll see you at the airport tomorrow. Don’t be late.” And with that, he left. John and Lestrade exchanged another look, then John shrugged and followed the other man out of the station. Lestrade just shook his head and returned to his paperwork. He had a lot to complete before he left tomorrow.

 

 

“Do you want to explain what that was all about?” John asked as they got into a cab.

“What what was all about?” Sherlock replied, deliberately ignorant. John just titled his head, not buying his act for a moment. Sherlock took a second to berate himself for allowing someone to know him so well but answered the question properly.

“There was no point arguing. Once Mycroft decides something it takes far more effort than I am willing to exert to change his mind. Besides, Lestrade rarely mentions Paris or leaves London. This is a unique experience to acquire some interesting information on him.”

“Greg mentioned once that he was French but I’ve never really believed it. He just seems like such a Londoner,” John said incredulously. Sherlock snorted at that so John frowned at him. “Have I really missed such an obvious clue to his heritage?”

“No, I guess you haven’t,” Sherlock said grudgingly. “You at least knew where he was from, unlike some of his colleagues, **and** **they** even hear him speak French at times.”

“I’ve never heard him speak French,” John said firmly. Sherlock sighed.

“He doesn’t use his first language often, but he is fluent.”

“I guess because you’ve known him so long it’s understandable that you would know all about him,” John said, nodding his head in agreement to his logic.

“I don’t know all about him,” Sherlock murmured, turning to stare blankly out of the window. John shot him a concerned frown but didn't comment.

 

 

 

When Lestrade reached the airport the next morning, the other two men were already waiting for him. He grinned as he walked up to them and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder.

“Ready for a long flight?” Lestrade asked and Sherlock glared at him.

“The flight will barely be an hour,” the detective replied through clenched teeth. John frowned at the tense look on his friend’s face.

“Sherlock isn’t the keenest flyer,” Lestrade said in answer to the unasked question.

“Really?” John asked in surprise. “I didn’t know you didn’t like flying.”

“It is ridiculous to make a big deal out of something so small,” Sherlock replied moodily.

Lestrade just chuckled and began walking towards the check-in desk, the other two following behind him.

“So, how did you know?” John asked, refusing to drop the subject. It always intrigued him to learn more about Sherlock and he had always had the feeling that the Detective Inspector knew more than he let on. It just shocked him that Greg knew something quite so personal. _I guess I don’t really know all that much about their relationship. Greg said that he’d known Sherlock for a few years before I met him but I always assumed they were strictly work colleagues. This does explain why Greg puts up with more of Sherlock’s shit than most people do._

“Sherlock told me,” Lestrade said, his tone suggesting that answer should have been obvious.

“But Sherlock never tells people about himself. I hadn’t realised how close you two were, especially with all the…differences of opinion.” John stared at his friends now and was amazed at the reaction his words caused. Lestrade was working hard not to catch eyes with anyone and Sherlock…Sherlock was **blushing**! John tried very hard to work his features into a neutral expression but from Sherlock’s scowl he obviously wasn’t doing a good job. The consulting detective hastily cleared his throat and began to speak, his voice slightly strained.

“Yes, well, a lot of my early days with Lestrade were spent being high so I haven’t bothered to remember many of the conversations we had.”

This quickly stopped all conversations as none of the party wanted to think about those days. Feeling guilty about bringing the topic up in the first place, John let silence keep them company until they boarded the plane. Once they were seated, Lestrade by the window and John in the middle, the ex-soldier decided to start up conversation again.

“So, Greg, what’s this friend of yours like? Mycroft said you were arranging where we would be staying; I'm guessing it’s with this friend?”

“Yeah, Anton’s got this big house in Montgeron, which is why we’re flying to Orly.” Lestrade stopped talking and a frown appeared on his face. He turned from where he was staring out of the window and, fixing them with an unreadable look, said “Just don’t take everything he says too much to heart. He’ll probably make some comments that won’t make sense or suggest something uncomfortable. It’s in everyone’s best interest to just ignore him.”

John and Sherlock glanced at each other, curious as to what their friend could mean. Lestrade just sighed though and turned back to the window. As the plane took off, he found himself wishing that he hadn’t told Mycroft to procure the flight tickets. He watched as London got further and further away from him, praying that it would still be in one piece by the time he returned. He may have left Paris 200 hundred years ago but he still went back every decade or so to keep up with the language and the people; it was his first home after all. He turned to check on Sherlock and saw that John was keeping him occupied with a discussion on what they would do in Paris. Smiling at the sight, he half listened to their conversation while surreptitiously observing the rest of the passengers and the plane crew with his acute senses to try and diminish his hunger. This was why **he** hated flying.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I don't speak French. But the lovely Karen Sherstrade does and has helped with this chapter. Translations can be found in the End Notes in order of appearance.  
> Also, my darling OMC calls Lestrade "Grégoire" because it is a French version of Gregory apparently and looks fancy.

_Running down the alley, chasing the sweet scent. Hunting in the shadows, never too close but never losing the trail. Finally, finally, pouncing on his prey and ripping into the girl’s throat. Enjoying the taste of warm blood flowing out of veins and into his eternally hungry form. Dropping the cold body and walking away, joining the crowd of people celebrating the night and none the wiser to his actions. Walking into the house and letting himself shiver as the mouth covered his own, tongue licking the last of his meal from his teeth._

Lestrade pulled himself from the memory as the cab drew up beside the house he had just been remembering. It hadn’t changed much over the last few decades, having been reconstructed in 1912 after an out-of-control fire burnt half the street down. He paid the driver and just stood looking at the building, trying to keep himself in the present, recognising that he wasn’t alone.

“Lestrade? Are we going in?” Sherlock’s voice seemed to contain a pinch of actual concern so he shook himself from his stupor and nodded. The three of them walked up the drive and Lestrade wasn’t surprised when the door opened before they were a quarter of the way towards it. He smirked at the figure leaning nonchalantly against the frame. The man was a good 6’5” and, like Sherlock, cut an arrogant and striking pose. He didn’t look a day over 30 and had his wavy brown hair tied back with a black ribbon, stopping it from falling into eyes that held the sky.

“Bonjour, Grégoire, ça fait longtemps qu'on ne s'est pas vu,” he said, with a smile and a voice like silk.

“Oui, je sais. Tu m'as vraiment manqué,” Lestrade replied. They just looked at each other for a moment before the Frenchman threw his arms around the detective inspector, who returned the hug fully. Sherlock and John exchanged puzzled expressions before Lestrade pulled himself away from his friend and turned towards them.

“Anton, ce sont Sherlock et John,” he said, indicating to them in turn. “Guys, this is Anton.”

“Um…hello,” John said, embarrassed by the over affectionate greeting. Sherlock just nodded.

“Welcome,” Anton said, his French accent giving a pleasantly warm tint. “When Grégoire said he would be bringing friends, I must say, I didn’t expect a pair of quite so appetising humans.”

John and Sherlock frowned at these words and looked to Lestrade to explain them. However, their friend was currently scowling at Anton and seemed to be trying to repress the urge to punch him.

“Je croyais que j'avais été clair: tu ne peux pas parles de ça. Ils ne le savent pas et ils ne le sauront pas. Pas si je peux l'empêcher!” Lestrade snapped out harshly. Anton stared coolly back at him while the other two looked on in confusion.

“Toutes mes excuses mon ami,” he said graciously. “You are right. Let us all go inside.” The Frenchman turned and led the way in, Lestrade right behind him, still scowling.

“What was that about?” John asked quietly, as they followed slowly into the house.

“I'm not sure,” Sherlock replied. “But I have decided what we are going to do this trip.”

John looked apprehensive as he asked “What, **exactly** , have you decided?”

Sherlock smiled at him and said “We’re going to find out, **exactly** , what Lestrade, and I'm guessing Mycroft, are trying to keep from us.”

“And how do you know they are keeping something from us?”

“Because, while I may not be fluent, I do speak French. I won’t be able to translate the whole of their conversations but I’ll be able to obtain the basic information,” Sherlock said primly. He hated to admit to any sort of weakness but was beginning to regret never asking Lestrade to help him perfect his French. It was always useful to be fluent in other languages and it would have given him an excuse to spend time with the man. He quickly pushed that thought away; he had no time for anything so sentimental, especially as it seemed two of the people closest to him were hiding an important secret.

“Do you think this could have anything to do with why Mycroft sent us here?” John asked with his uncanny clarity.

“Yes, John. I do,” Sherlock answered, staring at the two men waiting for them in the hallway, trying to get a read on how close they actually were.

 

 

 

After being shown to their rooms and all around the house, Anton announced that it was time for dinner. They descended to the dining room, a high ceilinged room decorated with French artefacts from several centuries. The table was a long one, meant to seat over thirty, but they kept to one end; Anton at the end, with Lestrade on his right, Sherlock on his left and John next to Lestrade. They ate in silence for a while, enjoying the meal and the comfortably settings. Anton broke the silence though with another comment, obviously just for Lestrade as it was spoken in French.

“Grégoire, je suis content que tu aies décidé de venir m'aider, mais je ne comprends pas pourquoi tu as ressentis le besoin d'amener avec toi ces animaux de compagnie. J'aurais pu m'occuper du divertissement.”

Sherlock and John looked at Lestrade, trying to gauge his mood to work out the words but their friend merely smiled and replied “Ce ne sont pas des animaux de compagnie et si tu continues avec cette attitude, je vais t'arracher le coeur.”

Anton began to laugh and Lestrade’s smile changed into a grin. Sherlock and John just shared a bewildered look, both realising that they were going to spend a lot of time doing that. Lestrade decided to take pity on them and changed the conversation to English. They spent the rest of the evening discussing London and the many wondrous sights of Paris. Eventually though, Sherlock and John retired to their rooms and left the other two to talk privately in the parlour. Now that they were alone, Anton brought out fresh glasses and walked over to one of the room’s many hidden compartments. After keying in his code, the door swung open to reveal a small refrigerated space holding several wine bottles. Pulling one out, he presented it to Lestrade for inspection.

“1920, Marie Du Lare,” Lestrade said, removing the cork and smelling the beverage. Anton smiled and held out the glasses. Lestrade poured the liquid out, savouring the sight of the rich red flow. They toasted before emptying their glasses. After refilling, Lestrade asked Anton why he had been asked to return to Paris.

“I have made a mistake, mon ami,” Anton said with a sigh. Lestrade gestured for him to continue, his eyes filled with worry and compassion. “I turned my latest companion.”

“Really?” Lestrade asked, incredulous. “You must have become quite attached. You swore that after Isabella you wouldn’t love again.”

“You know me Grégoire, my heart may be old but it still feels as strongly as ever,” Anton replied with a wistful smile. “It still holds a space for you after all.”

“I couldn’t stay here any longer. You know that. Besides, I have never stopped caring for you; we both just realised that it wasn’t a permanent love.” Lestrade kept his gaze on the floor. He hated remembering the way his relationship had ended with Anton; the other man hadn’t wanted to admit that they weren’t meant to be. Fingers under his chin forced him to look up and meet his oldest friend’s bright blue eyes. Anton smiled and pressed a quick chaste kiss to his lips.

“I hold nothing against you, Grégoire. You were right after all.” They shared a small smile and brushed the sombre mood away.

“So,” Lestrade said, “Tell me about this companion. I take it her turning didn’t go well.”

“Unfortunately not,” Anton chuckled self-depreciatingly. “Her name is Camille. I met her when she was 18 and took an instant liking to her. I had just planned to take her to bed, feed a little, then move on.”

“That didn’t happen, though.”

“No. Instead, I found myself courting her for the next decade. A few weeks ago, on her birthday, I decided to change her.”

“Was this with her permission? Or did you plan to tell her what she had become afterwards?” Lestrade asked, hoping that it was the former.

“Of course it was with her permission,” Anton replied indignantly. “Je ne suis pas un idiot. I know the dangers of turning someone without telling them of our world. No, the problem happened after she turned. We went hunting; I lost her somehow and have been unable to track her since. Please Grégoire, you are the best tracker there is.” Anton’s voice rang with desperation.

“If you lost her, you do realise what that means,” Lestrade said blatantly. He wasn't going to give his friend false hope; he was too hardened for that.

“Yes,” Anton said simply. “Hunters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations:  
> 1\. It has been too long.  
> 2\. Tell me about it. I have greatly missed you.  
> 3\. This is Sherlock and John. (Kinda obvious this one.)  
> 4\. I thought I made myself clear; none of those types of comments. They don't know and they're not going to. Not if I can help it.  
> 5\. My apologies, my friend.  
> 6\. I am pleased that you decided to come and help me out but I do not understand why you felt the need to bring you human pets. I could have provided entertainment.  
> 7\. They aren't pets and if you persist with such an attitude I'll rip out you heart.  
> 8\. I'm not an idiot.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the comments. I'll try and work on my grammar, but hey, I'm all for descriptivism.

_Blood poured from the tear in his neck but the drugs in his system prevented him from acting. He stared blurrily at the puddle beside him, watching the swirls and patterns created by the addition of more blood. He didn’t notice that he was no longer alone until boots appeared in his line of sight. As the stranger knelt beside him, he tried to move; shout; anything! but he couldn’t. The drugs had made him slow; the blood loss, almost catatonic._

_“It’s okay,” a soft voice whispered as the blood was licked almost lovingly from his neck, “It’s okay.” He couldn’t fight unconsciousness anymore, and the last thing he registered was a gentle kiss to his wound and the words “I’ll always protect you.”_

Sherlock sat up quickly, pulse pounding in his ears. He leaned his head into his hands, trying to calm his mind. He had thought that he had deleted everything from his drug days but it appeared that residue still lingered. He forced his mind to remove the image of his blood pooling next to him but couldn’t quite bring himself to forget the feeling of those gentle lips on his skin. Sherlock let out a deep sigh. He had never found out who the stranger was; all his brother had said when he woke up in hospital was that he had been found by a young detective inspector. Lifting his head, he turned it to stare out of the window, through which sunlight was beginning to stream. It looked to be a beautiful day but Sherlock didn’t care about that. Lestrade had done his part to save him that night and Sherlock had never forgotten it, no matter how much he had tried to quash the feelings that came with the memories. Right now, though, he had to focus on figuring out why they were all in Paris. Pushing the darkness of his dream aside, he began preparing for the day, for once hoping that trouble wouldn’t present itself.

 

When he reached the dining room, John was already seated at the laid table, looking uncomfortable to be eating alone.

“Where are Lestrade and Anton?” Sherlock asked, causing John to look up at him and sigh in relief of no longer being alone. As Sherlock sat opposite him, he said “They already left. Lestrade was just leaving when I came down. He said that he and Anton had some things to take care of and that they’d be back for dinner.” Sherlock frowned at this news as it meant that it would be extremely hard to follow the two men. He knew from experience that Lestrade was an expert at avoiding people; he had once tried to follow the older man and had had to concede defeat 10 minutes into the chase.

“Hmm, I guess we’ll have to start by searching the house then. I had wanted to leave that until later,” Sherlock said, annoyed.

“What?” John spluttered, trying not to choke on the sip he had just taken from his tea. Sherlock just gave him his _isn’t it obvious?_ look and waited for him to catch up.

“We’re going to search our good friend’s old friend’s house in the hope that it will reveal something about Lestrade and Mycroft’s secret dealings.”

“Exactly, John,” Sherlock said with a pleased smile. As much as he loved showing off it did become tedious to constantly explain himself. He also quite enjoyed the tiny burst of pride that he got every time John understood him so well or worked something out. John shook his head in exasperation but simply said “Fine. But I'm finishing eating first.”

 

 

 

 

Lestrade took a deep breath, drinking in all the different tastes on the Parisian air. It had been far too long since he’d been here.

“I can hear your smirk, y’know,” he shot over his shoulder. Anton merely chuckled and continued to look around the city from the rooftop they had procured. Lestrade let it go as he scented the air. Anton was wearing one of Camille’s scarves so that Lestrade could recognise her scent if he came across it. They had headed up the Seine, getting closer and closer to the centre of Paris, following the path Anton and Camille had taken when they went hunting. There was no trace of the girl anywhere though.

“I can’t find her if there is no trail,” Lestrade suddenly snapped, anger and aggravation obvious in his voice.

“Relax Grégoire, relax. If anyone will find anything, it is you. Please do not take my compliment as pressure. Take it as faith,” Anton said calmly, both his voice and the hand he placed on Lestrade’s shoulder comforting. Lestrade leaned into the touch, letting his senses spread as far as they could.

Cars. People. River. Fire. Camille. Fire. People. _Wait!_

Lestrade’s head whipped around, trying to pinpoint exactly where the scent was coming from. It was mixing heavily with the fire; the fire that was burning in……

“Le Parc de Bercy!” he shouted, and began running, Anton hot on his heels. With their vamperic speed they reached the park in no time. They stopped running and Lestrade had to grab hold of Anton to keep him from rushing into the bonfire. Up close it was easy to pick out Camille’s scent coming from the fire.

“No,” Anton mumbled, his voice breaking as sobs racked his body. “No!”

“Anton, we have to leave. Now!” Lestrade barked the imperative. There were people all across the park, looking at the fire but oblivious to its meaning, and he could hear sirens approaching. Quickly checking to make sure no eyes were on them, Lestrade lifted Anton into his arms and sped away. It would not do for them to be caught there, either by the police or any hunters possibly still lurking around. For Camille had definitely been killed by hunters. No one else would have been able to take down, and keep hidden, a vampire that was under Anton’s protection. With his friend crying in his arms, Lestrade tried to keep focused on the journey back to the house, and keep repressed the urge to teach these killers who the real hunters were.

 

 

 

 

“There’s nothing here, Sherlock,” John whined. They had searched nearly every room in the house except the bedrooms and the parlour. Sherlock had wanted to start with the bedrooms but John had refused to let him. “No, Sherlock,” he had said, “We are not going to snoop in their rooms. They deserve that small amount of privacy. I’ll help you check everywhere else but not there.”

“There has to be,” Sherlock said impatiently. “There can’t just be nothing. Not in a place like this with a man like that.”

“A man like what, exactly?” John asked. He **had** gotten the impression that Anton was a secret keeper but Greg was obviously very close to him and that, in John’s eyes, meant that he should been given some leeway.

“Oh, please, John. Surely you aren’t that dense? It is painfully clear that he is a man who keeps to himself. He employs people to care for his home, yet we are here alone, so he evidently doesn’t trust them to be here when he isn’t. His appearance suggests that he is in his 30’s but he holds himself like a gentleman that was born well before 1970. His relationship with Lestrade also suggests that he is older than he seems. They are far too close for Anton to be that young.”

“You do realise that, though he looks young, he is probably about your age, and yet, **you’re** friends with Lestrade.”

“Yes…well,” Sherlock said, somewhat sheepishly, “I wouldn’t really describe my relationship with Lestrade as quite friendship. And besides,” he added quickly, “Anton and Lestrade’s relationship far outstrips friendship. They were obviously lovers at one point but Lestrade ended it.”

“How could you possibly know that?” John asked, sceptical despite knowing his friend’s talents. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and moved into the parlour. John quickly replayed their arrival yesterday.

“Okay,” he said, joining Sherlock in the parlour. “You might be right about the lovers bit.”

“Did you really not expect me to be?”

“I suppose not. Anyway, is there anything other than his age and relationship with Greg that suggests that his privacy means he knows about this ‘conspiracy’?” John asked, complete with air quotes.

“Well,” Sherlock said, knocking on a section of wood panelling, “I’m sure we’ll find out if we open this compartment up.” John walked over to him, watching as Sherlock found the keypad.

“Do you have an idea of what it could be?”

“Possibly,” Sherlock murmured, deep in concentration. John waited as he seemed to deliberate before keying in a code. There was a quiet click and the compartment door swung open.

“What was it?” John asked.

“Lestrade’s birthday; month and date,” Sherlock replied, placing his hand into the space. “This is a mini refrigerator unit.” He pulled out a wine bottle and they moved into the centre of the room to inspect it with the help of the light flooding through the window. Sherlock carefully removed the cork and sniffed the contents. When his face scrunched up, John became worried.

“What is it Sherlock?”

“Blood.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I read 'Behind the Masks' by Wolfhound46 (Read it! Love it!) and it gave me a piece of twisted inspiration that I'm just gonna hang here for now.  
> On a different note, this is a long one. With angst. Enjoy! ;)

Dinner that night was a silent and solemn affair. Both pairs of investigators were shocked and horrified by their findings and so were struggling to start up a casual conversation. Sherlock had wanted to begin interrogating Anton but when he and Lestrade had returned, it was clear that the Frenchman was barely functioning. John had rushed up to them, worried that there may be injuries but Lestrade had just said that they’d received some bad news and left it at that. A kick under the table brought his attention to the doctor and a quick study of his facial expression informed Sherlock that he had been staring at Anton for too long.

“I am sorry, my friends,” Anton said suddenly, his voice quiet and somewhat hoarse, from crying Sherlock assumed, “But I believe I will retire now. It has been an upsetting day.”

The other three watched as he rose from the table and left the room, with a squeeze to Lestrade’s shoulder as he passed. They sat in silence for a while longer as they finished dinner but then they too left for their rooms. John had just collapsed on his bed when Sherlock entered.

“You didn’t say anything,” John stated, refusing to sit up and remove his gaze from the ceiling.

“It wouldn’t have gotten us anywhere. I'm also not completely tactless.”

John snorted but then said “Yeah, I suppose. You wouldn’t want to get in Lestrade’s bad book anyway.” Sherlock refused to comment but did give John an annoyed frown. He lay next to him on the bed and together they stared unseeingly upwards.

“What do you think it means? The blood in the bottle?” John asked eventually. It scared him but he hoped for Greg’s sake that there was a rational answer. He would hate to think how the Scotland Yard detective would feel to find out his friend was a murderer or something. And even worse, what would they do if he already knew? John thought that was unlikely though, Greg wasn’t the sort of person to just let a crime happen, even if it was committed by a friend. Just look at his interactions with Sherlock.

“I'm not sure,” the consulting detective replied after another moment of silence. “And that infuriates me. There are signs that he could be a murderer and he likes to keep his victims’ blood but then Lestrade should not fit in. He couldn’t possibly know as there is no way he’d just let such a thing slide…”

“That’s what I thought,” John interrupted and turned to his friend’s face scrunched up in irritation. “But…?” John prompted.

“ **But** …they clearly know everything about each other so I do not see how Anton could hide that he is a killer. Lestrade, though it seems otherwise at times, isn’t an idiot. At least, not a complete one.” Sherlock’s voice was hard with frustration, making it plain that this was getting to him as much as John. They both let out huffs of annoyance and focused back on the ceiling.

“Maybe we just let it be,” John offered, aware that his reluctance was obvious.

“No,” Sherlock said bluntly, “We have to figure this out. We cannot just leave a killer alone, especially one that is Lestrade’s friend. There’s also the fact that Mycroft would not be pleased with Lestrade for letting us stay here. No, we have to just re-evaluate our findings. **And** get into Anton’s room.” John wanted to argue but found he couldn’t. Before he had a good reason for leaving the bedrooms alone but this new piece of the puzzle changed the game.

“Okay. We’ll start in the morning. I need sleep to wrap my head around this,” John said, and felt the bed lift slightly as his friend got up. When the door shut, he rolled onto his side and stared out of the window. The sky had gotten considerably darker during his conversation with Sherlock, and if it weren’t for the lights he wouldn’t be able to see the street. Sighing, he closed his eyes, not bothering to undress and falling asleep where he lay.

 

 

Lestrade walked back to his room in a daze. He had had to get outside and take a walk to stop himself from just breaking down. His head was spinning with too many different emotions and he just needed to forget them all for a while.

“Perhaps we can help each other,” a voice said softly from his left. He turned his head to see Anton leaning on the doorframe of his own room. Lestrade realised he must have said the last part of his thoughts out loud. He tilted his head inquiringly at Anton, who stepped to the side, leaving space for him to step into the room.

“This isn’t a good idea,” Lestrade said uneasily, but he knew that he was going to anyway.

“S'il te plaît, Grégoire,” Anton whispered plaintively, holding out his hand. Lestrade stood hesitatingly for a brief moment…before he took the hand and let himself be pulled into the room.

“This doesn’t change anything between us,” he said as the door slowly closed behind him.

“I know,” Anton replied, and pulled him into a bruising kiss.

 

Sherlock sank onto his bed, unsure how to process what he had just seen. He tried to keep his emotions under control but he just didn’t know how to in this situation. Sobs began to wrack his body and tears spilled down his face but he managed not to make a sound. He should have known that this would be the outcome as soon as he worked out they had been lovers.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he scolded himself quietly. How could he let that tiny bit of gratitude grow to such an extent? He was **supposed** to be above such things. Caring **wasn’t** an advantage. And yet … it had felt so good, even if he rarely acknowledged it. He tried once more to pull himself together but it was impossible. He was just going to have to allow this emotional overload to run its course. He screwed his eyes up tight, fighting to push aside the image of Lestrade entering that room. He had never planned to act on his feelings but he had liked to occasionally imagine what would happen if he did: Lestrade would be confused at first but then his face would morph into that radiant smile that Sherlock loved so much. He’d just keep smiling as he’d reach for Sherlock and…

But now that dream was completely destroyed. Lestrade had never once shown himself to be interested in Sherlock in such a way and now it was pretty obvious that he wasn’t; he would never agree to comfort sex (Sherlock may have been allowing his emotions some rope but he wasn’t **blind**.) with Sherlock nearby if he was. Tears were still falling down his face but Sherlock found that he didn’t really care anymore. It was a sick kind of relief to get all these ridiculous feelings out. Hopefully now they’d go away. Unfortunately, he didn’t think it was going to be that easy; he’d been in love with Lestrade for too long.

 

“You should tell him.”

Lestrade turned to look at Anton lying next to him. It was the early hours of the morning now, a time that Lestrade found that honesty came to easily. He didn’t bother to answer Anton. Denying how he felt would just be met with disbelief but he wasn’t sure he could quite admit his feelings yet, especially as he had just slept with someone else and Sherlock was bound to notice when he came down to breakfast in the morning.

“Keeping such things hidden does no one any good,” Anton continued, ignoring his silence.

“And if I say something? I’ll just be mocked. Only I would fall in-…it doesn’t even matter. I can’t let it be known,” Lestrade said despairingly, turning away again.

“Why not?” Lestrade laughed at the honestly curious question.

“Because, I am a 379 year old vampire who works with his super protective brother to stop London from being harmed by the supernatural and, more importantly, stop anyone from finding out about the supernatural. Especially Sherlock. Because of his super protective brother.” Lestrade knew that his voice had become slightly hysterical but couldn’t bring himself to care. A hand gently stroked up and down his bare chest, helping both his mind and breathing to calm. He moved onto his side to see Anton smiling tenderly at him.

“What?” he asked.

“Oh, Grégoire,” Anton said softly, “Just tell him. If he doesn’t feel the same, you will be able to move on, and if he does, you will be saving both of you from pain. Trust me.”

“I always have,” Lestrade replied, so quietly that Anton needed his enhanced hearing. Anton kept up his tender smile and placed a soft kiss to his friend’s forehead. “Tell him.”

“Okay.”

 

 

 

Lestrade entered the library the next morning, having heard Sherlock’s breathing coming from within. He had ended up eating breakfast alone with John, the others having decided to skip the meal, and they’d enjoyed a pleasant time discussing football and other mundane subjects that their mutual detective friend abhorred.

He found Sherlock reading in the back of the room, perched on the windowsill like a child.

“What’cha reading?” he asked cheerily, instantly relaxing in the other’s presence. Sherlock’s head snapped to look at him and Lestrade offered a sheepish smile as an apology for startling him.

“Nothing of importance,” Sherlock answered causing Lestrade to frown at the tone.

“Is something wrong?” he asked worriedly.

“Why would something be wrong?”

“Because your voice is icier than the alps?” Lestrade questioned back. Sherlock just stared emotionlessly at him before turning back to his book.

“Okay, have I done something to upset you?” Lestrade asked, worry overcoming his over feelings.

“Of course not. I just don’t need you getting reattached to France.”

“I’m sorry?” Lestrade was really confused now. Sherlock had never spoken so dispassionately to him and he couldn’t figure out why.

“You and Anton,” Sherlock said, like it was the most obvious thing. “It wasn’t hard for me to work out that you were lovers.”

“We haven’t been that for a long time. I still care about him but he’s just a friend now.”

“But last night could easily have awoken your feelings for each other.”

“Why do you even care?” Lestrade asked suspiciously, trying to dampen down the part of him that hoped for Sherlock to be jealous.

“I don’t, not really. However, I do enjoy the cases that I get from New Scotland Yard and if you decide to move back here I’m unlikely to get them. The other officers don’t exactly like me, and, though I don’t care about that, London would be overrun with crime because they would refuse to call for my considerably superior expertise.”

All thoughts of confessing left Lestrade’s mind as fury overtook everything else. He tried to keep himself under control but he couldn’t quit stop his fists from shaking. Roughly shoving down the urge to snarl, he instead managed to bite out “Well don’t worry about your precious cases, I'm not ready to leave London just yet,” before storming out of the room. He needed to kill something, now! And he knew exactly who.

 

Sherlock sank back against the windowsill, breathing heavily. He hadn’t wanted to make Lestrade hate him but it was the only way he was going to create some distance between them. He managed to resist the urge to cry but his body still shuddered. He focused on looking out the window at the garden but he felt something inside him shatter as he recalled Lestrade’s fight to keep his face neutral.

 

 

After breakfast, John had decided to wander around the house, taking in the ornate design and rich colour scheme.

“Not lost are you?” a playful voice asked behind him. He spun around to see Anton standing in the doorway to the kitchen, a china cookery bowl complete with wooden spoon in his arms.

“No,” John replied, “I was just looking round.” He tried to keep his nervousness to a minimum but he was finding it a little hard. His mind was supplying less than helpful reasons for why Anton was cooking when he employed a top chef. Anton gave him a quizzical look but then seemed to dismiss what he’d been thinking.

“When I get upset, I bake,” he offered as explanation for the implements he was carrying.

“Oh,” John said, not really sure what to say. “Would you mind if I watched?” Anton smiled in reply and led the way back into the kitchen. John watched as he mixed the batter, and soon relaxed in the calm atmosphere. Before long, he was working right beside Anton, telling the other man all about Mary and his adventures with Sherlock. The Frenchman was an attentive listener, responding in all the right ways, and John found that he only had one tiny niggling thought about how he was a possible criminal. Eventually though, he had to ask about Lestrade.

“You and Lestrade seem very close. Sherlock says that you used to be lovers.”

Anton gave him an unreadable look before his features softened. “Yes,” he said, “We used to be. But that was a long time ago.”

“How are you still so close though?” John asked, a little in awe of their relationship.

“Grégoire and I share a lot of history but nothing will ever stop us from caring about each other. I know everything about him and he knows everything about me.”

“Do you think you’ll ever get back together?” John was genuinely curious. He couldn’t imagine being so close to someone and going through so much without some serious problems. Anton, though, just smiled and shook his head.

“No. We had our time and I wouldn’t change anything. Well,” he added, his voice suggesting embarrassment, “I’d perhaps like to change how I reacted to his proposal to ending our relationship. He was completely in the right but…well…”

“I think I understand,” John said and they shared a smile before Anton moved to pull the biscuits from the oven. “Did you ever find someone new?”

“Yes.” Anton suddenly turned sad so John decided to leave that subject alone and ask “What about Greg?” This caused Anton to smile mischievously.

“My dear Grégoire found someone quite a while ago. He just hasn’t acted on it.”

“Really?” John asked interestedly. “Do you think it’s anyone I know?”

“Probably. You do share associates.”

“If I ask who…?”

“I would have to tell you that I can’t say.” John pouted at this, making Anton laugh.

“Would you betray your best friend’s love?” he asked and John had to shake his head. He knew that he would never be able to bring himself to do that to Sherlock if he ever told him such a thing. And this got him thinking about Sherlock’s recent reactions to Greg. As Anton brought out the icing equipment, he hoped that he was right about his two stubborn friends and that they’d both realise they weren’t alone.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a good thing I started this chapter last night because it was tricky and I had an evil essay to write today.  
> It also starts a bit violent.

_The man screamed as fangs sunk into his neck, ripping it wide open and cutting off the sound of his cries as blood spurted from his throat. His body fell beside the others, each torn apart viciously and leaving large pools of dark red blood._

Lestrade tried to shake the images of the hunt from his head but it wasn’t working. It had been so easy to draw the hunters to him. They had obviously been hoping their burning of Camille would attract other vampires and Lestrade had been eager to please. He could still taste the blood of the random girl he had used to get them target him. He remembered as her short blonde hair _fell into her eyes and she smiled sweetly when he showed interest in her. He took her out behind the café, into the darkened alley, knowing that at least 3 hunters had been seated near him. He could hear them now, calling for backup as they kept their distance until he acted. With a cruel smirk he tore into the girl, covering her mouth to prevent her from screaming. The hunters let out a shout and…_ Lestrade once again pulled himself from the memories. He didn’t need to spend the hour flight home going over his eradication of the Parisian hunters. When he had returned to the house afterwards, he’d been covered in blood and had to sneak into his room where he’d found Anton waiting for him. His friend had taken one look and known everything. Rather than say anything though, he had just ran him a bath and left him to come down from his blood high.

As Lestrade sat on the plane now, he sent a thought of gratitude to his friend. He rarely let his darker side take control and he could reprimand himself enough without Anton’s help. Beside him, John was trying to initiate conversation but Sherlock was staying oddly silent. Lestrade was still too angry with him (and himself) to feel worried about the detective’s silence and his own thoughts were torturing him too much to talk. So the trip home was spent without a word exchanged as Lestrade replayed his actions in his head, Sherlock fought to keep his emotions under control in face of the officer’s clear distress, and John just left his friends to their thoughts.

 

 

_The first hunter to reach him attempted to stab him through the back but Lestrade was far too quick. Dropping the now dead girl’s body unceremoniously on the floor, he spun away from the weapon, grabbing the man’s arm as he did so. Snarling, he pulled the arm sharply. With his blood increased strength, the tendons; muscle; bone came apart like tissue paper. Leaving the man to collapse, Lestrade ran at the other two. He shoved one into the wall of the alley with enough force to crack his skull wide open and pounced on the other, going straight for her throat. When the rest of the hunters arrived, he had completely drained the woman’s body of blood, leaving it cold and pale with eyes staring blankly up. It was child’s play to kill the others. Acting on pure instinct, adrenaline and emotion, he mutilated each one with great pleasure. As he crashed his fist through the chest of the last one, ignoring his quickly cut off scream and pulling his heart from its place between his lungs, he registered the sound of sirens coming closer. Feeling a sadistic pleasure that someone had heard the hunters’ screams, he took one last look around the scene, checking that that he hadn’t left behind anything incriminating. He had received only a few scrapes, for he had been moving too fast for any real damage to occur, so all the blood splashed around belonged to his victims. Taking a deep breath to enjoy the sweet smell, he turned and ran from the alley. He had a long journey back to Anton’s but it was a small price to pay for the empowering feeling of a hunt well done._

Lestrade was awoken from his memories by the sound of his phone ringing. Reaching wildly for it, he pulled it towards him and answered with a hoarse “Yeah?”

“I just received word of a multiple homicide in Paris. Apparently it was quite messy,” Mycroft’s voice responded. Lestrade let out a groan of frustration and guilt. He had hoped for a few more hours before dealing with this.

“Seriously Mycroft, I am not in the mood. If you don’t want me to kill you then just give me a few more hours of sleep.” There was silence on the other end of the line so Lestrade moved to end the call.

“Very well,” Mycroft sighed, “I will meet you outside your apartment in three hours. Make sure you are ready.” The phone let out the beeps of a call ended so Lestrade chucked it back onto his bedside table. Curling in on himself, he burrowed under the covers, wishing for dreamless sleep.

 

 

 

John walked into Baker Street to the sound of music. He smiled as he caught sight of Sherlock playing his violin by the window. The wall by the couch caught his eye and as he turned around, his smile dropped. Pinned to the wall were pictures of Lestrade, Mycroft, several murders, and even one of Anton, interwoven with scrawled notes.

“What is all this?” he asked in confusion. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge him though and just continued to play. John took a closer look at the web of information on the wall. Any interactions between Mycroft and Lestrade seemed to have been highlighted and then linked to different murders.

“I trying to work out what they’re plotting together,” Sherlock’s voice said from behind him.

“And how do these murders fit in? Are they ones you think Anton may be connected to? Because I talked to him the morning before we left and he seemed really nice.”

“Everyone can seem nice, John. I, myself, have seemed nice when the occasion demanded it.” John raised his eyebrow at his friend, who just shrugged before continuing.

“These murders all occurred in Paris, a significant way from Anton’s home in Montgeron,” he said, indicating a map of Paris with several red crosses on it. “I’ve connected them because none of the scenes contained enough blood to fill a person; someone had clearly removed it.”

“So, we’re looking for a vampire,” John joked, causing Sherlock to scowl.

“Vampires do not exist, John. However, and I hate to say this, there is evidence that fits the description of a vampire killing.” John’s face became a picture of disbelief. **Sherlock Holmes was considering vampires!**

“I do not need to be told how ridiculous that sounds but it is true. Loss of blood, puncture wounds to the neck, age not apparent in appearance. Gahh,” Sherlock cried, “I can’t believe I'm considering that my brother and a detective inspector are conspiring with a vampire!”

“Okay, calm down and let’s look at this rationally,” John said in a calmly tone. “Maybe the murders are just designed to look like vampire killings. It’s probably just some weird MO.”

“You’re right. I need to focus.”

“So how does this one connect to Greg?” John asked suddenly, pointing to a particularly gruesome multiple homicide. Nine victims had been found in an alley, blood spilled everywhere with some limbs and organs removed. There was string linking it to a picture of Lestrade talking to Mycroft at a crime scene. John hadn’t ever seen the two together so he assumed that Sherlock must have taken it before he had joined him in his crime solving.

“That happened the morning we left,” Sherlock said, his voice oddly blank. John considered the rest of the web before understanding reached him.

“You think Greg went to Paris because of that. Why though? To investigate? Prevent it from happening? What? And how would he know it was going to happen?”

“That, is where I am stuck,” Sherlock said with frustration. “It obviously wasn’t to prevent it, but I doubt he would investigate such an exciting and unyielding case such as this without me. There’s also the fact that he couldn’t possibly have known it was going to happen.”

“So, basically, you have nothing,” John said bluntly. Sherlock shot him a black look but quickly returned to his work.

“There can only be one answer.”

“What?” John asked. He couldn’t see any answers in the mess of information on the wall.

“Well, Anton was in the house with you so this latest murder can’t have been him. Mycroft knew Lestrade was going to Paris and even made us go with him. There is only one answer that presents itself: Mycroft sent us to Paris as alibis while Lestrade took out his best friend’s enemies.”

There was silence after this statement before John let out a shout.

“That’s bloody ridiculous!”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do not expect such a treat ever again. Or a chapter tomorrow. I'll probably write one but I might not get time to post.

Lestrade and Mycroft sat opposite each other in silence. Lestrade had allowed the government man to choose the restaurant and now he was feeling faintly nervous. Mycroft hadn’t said anything yet except a greeting and informing him of where they were going so he was just waiting for the dressing-down to begin. He forced himself to eat something but he wasn’t really paying attention to food – he had had his fill in Paris. When Mycroft finally set down his knife and fork, he braced himself by taking a deep breath and looked down at his hands in his lap.

“I'm not going to scold you for your behaviour Gregory.”

Lestrade’s head shot up and he knew he was gaping. “You’re not? But…I was sure…”

“Yes, well, I can’t really be bothered with dealing with your control issues. Besides,” Mycroft said haughtily, “What happens in Paris is none of my concern.”

Lestrade let out a short laugh of nervousness so Mycroft shot him a rare look of reassurance.

“Look, if you want to talk to someone about it, I would listen. I do not have friends Inspector but I find that we have worked well together over the years so if you ever need help I suppose you can come to me.”

“I appreciate it, Mycroft,” Lestrade said with a small smile, “But I think I’ll stick to Help for Psychotic Vampires if anything comes up.” Mycroft shared his smile briefly before his features returned to their usual professional and emotionless state.

“Moving along, I have a body for you.”

“You do know how to cheer a guy up.”

“The throat was torn out.”

Lestrade sighed. As much as he loved his job, he really wasn’t in the right state of mind to deal with a renegade vampire right now.

“Do you have anything else to go on?” he asked exasperatedly.

“Unfortunately, I do,” Mycroft replied and Lestrade sat up straighter in interest.

“A message was left with the body.”

“What did it say?”

“Get Sherlock.”

 

 

Sherlock and John were sat side by side on the floor looking at the wall when Mary walked in.

“What are you two doing?” she asked, her brows knitting as she took in what they were looking at.

“Thinking,” they answered simultaneously. She sighed, knowing she wasn’t going to receive any more than that for a while and moved into the kitchen to make tea.

“So did you enjoy Paris, Sherlock? John said that Greg’s friend seemed nice.”

“It was stimulating. And Anton’s a murderer.”

Mary nearly dropped the teapot and hurried back to the main room.

“What?” she squawked.

“Well, we suspect he’s a murderer. Possibly a vampire but that’s our backup theory,” Sherlock replied calmly, eyes never leaving the information on the wall. Mary turned to John who just nodded. She shook her head in disbelief and went back to the kitchen.

“So does that make Greg a vampire as well?” she asked, laughing at her own joke.

Sherlock and John exchanged a look of horror and jumped up.

“That’s it!”

“No way, Sherlock! I am not believing in vampires.”

“But it explains how Lestrade could commit a murder.”

“Well I don’t believe he has.”

“Oh, come on John. Use your eyes!”

“I am! And all I can see is you being an idiot.”

“But if Lestrade is a vampire, then it would explain why we had to go to Paris with him. You’re all worried about Moriarty’s return driving me insane so if Lestrade left London, I’d be unprotected.”

“So now you’re saying that Mycroft knows about vampires?”

“If anyone was going to know if the supernatural existed in London, it would be my brother.”

“So, if I call him right now and say that we’ve figured out that Lestrade is a vampire…?”

“Fine!” Sherlock huffed and collapsed onto his chair. “It’s a stupid theory.”

“I'm sure you’ll work it out, Sherlock,” Mary said consolingly, handing him a mug of tea. “Not that I know what it is exactly you are trying to work out.”

“We’re trying to work out why Anton had a bottle full of blood hidden in his house. That then led to this,” John explained, pointing at the wall as he took his cup from his wife. Mary, after fetching her own tea, moved to examine Sherlock’s findings more closely. The murders ranged in messiness and nothing particularly stuck out. Except one photo.

“When was this taken?” she asked, gesturing to the photo that had caught her eye. It showed a group of officers standing around the body of a girl who was lying in a pool of her own blood.

“That one?” Sherlock asked, getting up along with John to stand beside her. “1964. Why?”

“Because I don’t think he should be there,” Mary said, pointing to the top left corner of the picture. Sherlock and John leaned in closer to look. Standing behind the officers, almost hidden from view, someone was watching the proceedings.

“That’s not possible,” John said, shocked by what he was seeing. Noticing his friend had moved and was now donning his coat, he asked “Where are you going?”

“I have a detective to see,” Sherlock said and swept from the building. John turned back to the photo, staring with Mary in confusion at the image of Greg Lestrade seemingly unsurprised by the bloody murder.

 

 

 

Lestrade looked up from his place at his desk towards his front door. He had returned home from his meeting with Mycroft in a daze. The news that Moriarty was already acting had come as a complete shock. He wasn’t ready to deal with him. _But you have to,_ his thoughts whispered traitorously. He sighed as the sound came again. And **now** it seemed he had to talk to Sherlock. He smiled at the thought that he had memorised the sound of Sherlock’s heartbeat and footsteps. He got up and frowned as a knock sounded through the apartment. Sherlock **didn’t** knock. He opened the door warily and the frown didn’t leave his face as Sherlock just swept past him and into his sitting room. He followed the younger man but kept a good distance between them; he was still slightly angry after all.

“What’s wrong Sherlock?”

The other man didn’t say anything and Lestrade began to get really worried.

“Sherlock?” he asked again, his voice quiet.

“I know,” Sherlock replied, just as quietly and not turning around.

“You know what?” Lestrade asked, a horrible feeling that he already knew settling in the pit of his stomach.

Sherlock turned to look at him and Lestrade was horrified to see tears glistening in the corners of his eyes.

“I know you’re a vampire.”


	8. Chapter 8

They just looked at each other for a long while. Lestrade didn’t know what to say and he was finding it extremely hard to breathe. So he stopped. He didn’t really need to breathe but it kept him feeling human, **and** stopped people from asking questions.

“Well?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and hoarse from attempting to stop the tears from falling. Lestrade wanted to respond but he wasn’t sure how. How did he tell the man he was in love with that he wasn’t even human? That his nemesis wasn’t human, not anymore. That his brother knew all about the supernatural and expressly forbad Lestrade from telling him.

“Lestrade, please.” Sherlock’s voice was begging.

“Alright,” he murmured wearily, “I’ll tell you everything. You should probably sit down though.” They moved over to the couch and sat at opposite ends, Sherlock staring at him like he’d never seen him before, while Lestrade kept his face averted. He would give Sherlock everything, complete honesty – even the parts he had sworn to never tell anyone.

 

 

_In 1635, a man was born in Paris into a family of low nobility. His dream was always to protect people, and so he joined the King’s Musketeers. He worked hard, rose through the ranks, and in 1682 he was part of a troop ordered to escort the most feared killer of the age to Paris for execution. They had just reached the city limits when they were ambushed. They all fought valiantly but they were unprepared; the ambushers and killer escaped, after killing every musketeer – except one. One man was left, barely alive but still breathing. As he waited for death to claim him he became aware that he wasn’t alone. Using all of his remaining strength, he forced himself to look up into unnaturally green eyes._

_“Do you fear death?” the eyes asked, and the man replied that he didn’t. The eyes were thoughtful for a moment before the pupils dilated to fill the entire eye._

_“Then I will teach you to,” they said, and the man’s world went dark as pain seared his neck._

Lestrade had to stop here. He hadn’t thought of his human life in years and now he was bombarded with memories of his family, his wife, his men.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said quietly. “I assumed that you chose this life, but never so long ago.”

“I had no choice in my turning,” Lestrade said despondently. “She forced me to become like her out of sick fascination to see what I would do.”

“So she didn’t teach you? Didn’t help you to adjust?” Sherlock asked, shocked. He had wanted to shout at his friend for keeping this from him but his anger was slowly giving way to horror; he couldn’t even begin to imagine the things Lestrade had to go through to become who he was today.

“No. I never even knew her name.”

“Then, what happened to you?”

“I survived.”

 

 

_He ran through the streets, delighting in his speed. He needed to feed again before he hid away for the day but he loathed to give up this feeling of freedom. Scenting the air as he ran, the smell of freshly spilt blood caught him. Dragging the taste in in a deep breath, he switched course, heading towards an easy meal. He alighted on a roof overlooking an alley and saw his prey; a prostitute, by the dress, with a tall man kneeling beside her. Licking his lips, he jumped silently to the floor and crept up on the man; his blood would make up for what the woman had lost. He lunged._

_He let out a cry as a hand wrapped around his throat and shoved him into the alley wall. He tried to twist out of the grip but the man was stronger than him. He snarled and snapped, rage and fear warring inside him with curiosity._

_“Well, well mon ami, a baby vampire.”_

_He stopped struggling and properly observed the man: took in his strength, his earthy smell, black eyes and blood-stained fangs. His face clouded with confusion, causing the man to frown._

_“You have no idea what you are, do you?” the man asked, and he shook his head. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to fix that. Anton Montavon, at your service.”_

“Anton saved you!” Sherlock said in awe. Now he understood how their friendship remained so close, even after a rough breakup (he would never admit it but he got that information from John).

“I paid him back quickly – well, for a vampire – but yeah, he saved me,” Lestrade said with a fond smile. “I’d been on the streets for 20 years, hiding during the day and feeding more nights than not. I had no control over myself; the bloodlust ruled my life. Anton taught me how to live properly. He helped me find myself again, and my dream to help protect others. I hate to think what would’ve happened if I never met him. I doubt any hunters would have been able to stop me, so the Council probably would have been the ones to destroy me.”

“Hunters? Council?” Sherlock found that he had so many questions but he desperately wanted Lestrade to continue his story.

“For as long as there have been vampires, there have been vampire hunters,” Lestrade explained. “I have no clue about vampire origins so **don’t** ask. I only know as much history as I lived, and even then there are gaps in my memory. I spent too many years feeding and fu…” Lestrade cut off his words quickly. He didn’t really need to go into some of Anton’s control techniques with Sherlock.

“Right,” Sherlock said just as quickly, a blush traitorously forming on his cheeks. “So…what’s the Council?”

“The Council are a group of vampires that make the rules and enforce them in every city where vampires live. They also choose which vampire to station in capital cities as a guardian, making sure others don’t break the rules and the humans stay ignorant.”

“My brother knows, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah,” Lestrade sighed. “Humans in positions of power in capital cities are informed of the supernatural and work with guardians to protect their city. For London, that’s Mycroft and I.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything so Lestrade gave him time to process and turned his head towards his window. He was so focused on the street outside that he jumped when a hand closed around his wrist. He twisted his head to see Sherlock staring intently at where their skin was touching.

“I’ve always known you were colder than average but how did I miss your lack of pulse?”

“Because we don’t often hold hands,” replied Lestrade softly, watching raptly as Sherlock began to stroke the inside of his wrist with a barely-there touch.

“And when we do, I’m always high.” Lestrade fought the frown off of his face at that statement; Sherlock was only stating facts and Lestrade knew that he regretted those days.

“How come you can go out in daylight now but not before? Vampires are meant to burn in the sunlight.” Lestrade quirked an eyebrow and Sherlock tried to appear unamused but his small smile ruined it. “Don’t look at me like that! When I considered vampires as a theory, I did my research.” Lestrade full on grinned making Sherlock huff but he made no move to retract his hand.  

“For about the first half a century or so, daylight burns. You eventually build up an…immunity, I guess, towards it and can easily pass for a human. With the exception of no pulse, fangs and eyeball-covering pupils.”

“How did you pay Anton back?” Sherlock asked, returning to the seriousness of the conversation.

“When the Council eventually found out that he’d caught a feral vampire and then proceeded to train it, they weren’t happy. At the time, there were several members quite a bit older than both Anton and I, and they gave me the chance to prove myself. I managed to not only save myself but also Anton.” “Are those members of the Council gone now?”

“Yeah, sometimes living gets too much. Many vampires, when they reach a certain age, decide it is time to stop existing. The oldest member of the Council now is only a few years older than me.”

“You sound like you don’t get along.”

“We don’t. You see, the Council never actually choses me to be the Guardian of London. I came here in 1814, hiding amongst Louis XVIII’s men – he was the King of France at the time. The Guardian back then was an old vampire who went by the name of Henry Turner. He came to meet me after I’d been in London for a few weeks, to make sure that I was a ‘respectable’ vampire. I guess he took a shine to me because he gave me a room in his house and taught me every inch of the city.”

“Was your relationship with him like your one with Anton?” Sherlock asked reluctantly.

“Hell no! Old Henry was like a father to me; I hadn’t had one in a long time.”

“So if the Council didn’t choose you, how did you become Guardian?”

 

 

_“You’re not serious!”_

_“Actually, my boy, I am.”_

_“But it’s not done! And I'm not even from England!”_

_“You have been here almost a century; I think you count as a local.”_

_“And what of the Council?”_

_“I am far older than any of those whipper-snappers. If I decide to give you the position, you will have the position.”_

_“Are you sure?”_

_“Positive. Oh, and you’ll need a proper name, boy.”_

“A proper name? Did you not have one?” Sherlock asked, puzzled. Lestrade grinned wryly, shifting his hand so it now held Sherlock’s.

“I have never been able to remember what my parents christened me. And in the Musketeers, I was only ever referred to as Lestrade; my family’s name. Anton decided to call me Grégoire, so when Henry told me I needed a first name, I chose Gregory, Greg for short.”

“I like Lestrade,” Sherlock said shyly, seemingly transfixed by the sight of their joint hands. It made Lestrade both want to smile and cry.

“Do you hate me?” he asked plaintively. Sherlock looked up and met his warm hazel eyes. He hated to admit that he had feelings; it made everything tricky, but he fund that the image of Gregory Lestrade, clearly pleading for forgiveness, broke his heart.

“I could never hate you,” he confessed, never breaking eye contact. Lestrade smiled but it was tinged in sadness.

“There is still so much you need to know,” he said dejectedly.

“It can wait,” Sherlock breathed, and, in a bout of impulsiveness, leaned forward and kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It didn't turn out as angsty as I planned but Lestrade still has to tell him about his tantrum in Paris and Moriarty.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being fluffier than I planned but oh well. Also, Sherlock probably sounds OC but I like to think that releasing his feelings would make him softer.

_Ripping through the woman’s neck was so easy. Her body fell to the ground with a small crack and he turned to face his remaining attackers. He smiled maliciously, fangs on full display, dripping with blood. He let out a howl as he pounced once more._

Lestrade woke suddenly, breathing heavily. He got out of bed, carefully extracting himself from the warm body and went to sit on his windowsill, watching the still sleeping man. To try and calm the bloodlust the dream had awoken, he decided to focus on the events of last night. **Sherlock Homes had kissed him!** He smiled at the memory of the soft lips on his. He just couldn’t believe that his feelings were returned.

 

 

_Lestrade broke the kiss, and stared at the young man beside him._

_“You...I…what?” he said, wincing at his eloquence. Sherlock just smiled shyly and placed a kiss to the back of his hand. Lestrade gazed at him in wonder, hoping that this wasn’t some cruel dream._

_“It isn’t,” Sherlock said, and Lestrade realised that he must have spoken that thought out loud._

_“Why?” he asked, confused by what had just happened. Sherlock turned his head away, suddenly going shy, and Lestrade found that he missed having those grey eyes on him. He gently cupped Sherlock’s face and turned it back to face him. Their eyes met again, and both smiled softly at the other. “Tell me,” Lestrade whispered._

_“I love you,” Sherlock confessed, a blush spreading across his cheeks. “I can’t pretend that I don't anymore; it hurts too much.”_

_“Then don’t pretend,” Lestrade instructed, and pulled him in for another kiss._

Lestrade sighed longingly as he looked at where Sherlock lay in his bed. The night had been tender and sweet as they traded soft kisses and ‘I love you’s. Lestrade had eventually led the consulting detective to his room and they’d fallen asleep, side by side, hands entwined. He had slept better than he had in ages, wrapped around Sherlock’s lithe body – until the memories of the hunter attack came back. He sighed again, dropping his head into his hands. Sherlock may have admitted that he loved him but how long could that really last? He was a vampire, for God’s sake, who hunted and killed without remorse.

“Do you, though?” Lestrade looked up to see Sherlock awake, still lying down but facing him now. The question didn’t make sense to Lestrade at first but then he realised that he must have been voicing his thoughts again.

“You don’t know everything I’ve done,” he said miserably.

“No, but I know you,” Sherlock said steadily. “You are the best of Scotland Yard, fighting constantly to stop London from being overrun with crime. I know you, Lestrade. I could never believe that you don’t feel remorse for causing even the smallest pain, let alone death.” He smiled lovingly and held out his hand. Lestrade moved over to take it and found himself pulled back onto the bed. He raised his eyebrow as Sherlock cuddled into his chest but wrapped his arms around the other man without hesitation.

“I’ve been having nightmares since we returned from Paris,” he admitted quietly. Sherlock didn’t say anything, just curled closer to him, letting him speak.

“It happens every time I lose control. I replay the deaths over and over whenever I close my eyes until I either accept what I’ve done or try to wipe out the guilt with more blood. The latter never works for long and then I'm forced to use the former.”

“What happened in Paris? I have the picture of the murder on my wall.”

“Why?” Lestrade asked, unsure if he wanted to know.

“I found it while looking for reasons to explain the blood in Anton’s parlour. John and I examined his house while you were both out to try and find out why Mycroft had sent us to stay with you. I also thought he was hiding something. I was right,” Sherlock finished smugly, never once sounding contrite for snooping.

“Yes, I guess you were,” Lestrade allowed. “What were your thoughts when you found the blood?”

“That he was a murderer. That’s why I put the picture up. But then I realised that he couldn’t possibly have committed it because he was at the house with John. You weren’t there though, and you said yourself that you only went to Paris to help him.”

“I did. But I didn’t even know what the problem was until I got there.”

“ **I** didn’t know that though,” Sherlock responded sulkily. Lestrade chuckled and kissed the top of his head.

“It was me, though.”

“Will you tell me why?”

“They were hunters.” Sherlock lifted his head up quickly and gave him a look of worry.

“And **you** decided to face them alone? Nine hunters!”

“Eight hunters,” Lestrade said sadly. Sherlock looked confused.

“But…there were nine bodies,” he said slowly, and then his face took on a look of understanding. “You killed someone else to attract them; the girl. She was the only one that died just of blood loss, the others all suffered additional injuries.” Lestrade looked away in shame. He was horrified by what he did but there was no changing it.

“Hey,” Sherlock said softly, drawing Lestrade’s attention back to him. “It’s okay. I forgive you.”

“Why? I killed her, Sherlock, with no thought but that I had to punish those hunters for what they did. She was just collateral damage at the time.”

“And now?” Lestrade frowned, making Sherlock smile again. “You’re beating yourself up about her death. I believe that shows that you care, that she isn’t just collateral damage, and that you **do** feel remorse.” Lestrade took in his words and a small smile began to grow on his face.

“That’s better,” Sherlock whispered, and leant forward to kiss him. When he pulled away to breath, he asked “Why did you need to punish the hunters?”

“Anton called me to Paris because his…friend, Camille, went missing and he couldn’t track her. I’m the best there is at tracking – and I mean that modestly – so he asked for my help. He knew there was a good chance it was hunters but was hoping it wasn’t.”

“It was though. What did they do to her?”

“They killed her. Built a fire in the middle of le Parc de Bercy and burned her body right there.”

“I'm sorry.” Lestrade saw in his eyes that he did truly mean that. He hugged him close and closed his eyes, enjoying the experience of Sherlock completely relaxing against him. Their breathing synchronised as they slipped back into sleep, both feeling safe and loved.

 

 

Mary huffed in annoyance as the doorbell rang again.

“Okay, okay, I'm coming!” she called, unlocking the door and pulling it open. Any other words died in her mouth at the sight of the man standing before her.

“Hi!” Jim Moriarty squealed, and shoved her back into the room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got Jim in! Not how I was going to originally but I like this way.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You get another chapter because I wrote most of the last one yesterday but didn't get time to post it.

“Make it stop,” Lestrade moaned, hiding his head under the pillow.

“What are you talking about?” Sherlock asked groggily, Lestrade’s movements waking him up.

“Your phone; it’s vibrating.” Sherlock frowned at him, surprised that he could hear that considering his phone was in his coat which had been abandoned in the sitting room. The consulting detective sighed as the vampire pushed his head further under the pillow and got out of the bed. He made his way to his coat and pulled it out, actually considering ignoring the call. On seeing John’s name on the screen, he answered.

“What’s up, John? If it’s a case I'm afraid I will have to decline; something else has-”

“WHERE ARE YOU!”

Sherlock grimaced at the bellow and replied “I’m at Lestrade’s. Why? What’s wrong?”

“Mary’s gone!”

“WHAT!” Sherlock shouted.

“I had an early shift at the hospital but when I got back our door was wide open and the place is trashed. Mary’s phone is still here and it doesn’t look like anything’s missing. I tried calling you but when you didn’t pick up I went to Baker Street. You weren’t there and I was really worried that you’d been taken too.”

“Calm down, John, I'm fine. I’ve been with Lestrade all night. Where are you now?”

“I'm back home. I haven’t touched anything but Sherlock…where is she?”

“I’ll be right there. Don’t move!” Sherlock ordered and ended the call. He threw his coat on and spun around to find Lestrade dressed and resting against the door frame.

“John-”

“I heard,” he said. “We’ll take my car.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, taking a deep breath as he followed the inspector out of the flat. He had to concentrate if he wanted to find Mary.

 

 

John’s eyebrows rose in surprise at seeing Lestrade as well but he didn’t say anything, too worried about his wife to ask if Sherlock had gotten the answers he wanted. The consulting detective walked around the rooms a few times and the others could see him getting aggravated.

“Sherlock?” John asked quietly. Sherlock looked across at his friend but quickly broke eye contact. He hated to tell his best friend that he had no idea who took her. As usual though, John read him perfectly.

“It’s okay Sherlock, you did your best. I guess Lestrade and the police will just have to cover this one.” His voice was steady and he looked composed but Sherlock knew better; he was freaking out but trying not to let it show.

“It doesn’t make sense though!” Sherlock complained. “Why can’t I work this out? I can tell that she opened the door and that they, a man, forced themselves in. But the rest doesn’t make sense. I'm positive, from the marks on the wall, that our kidnapper is 5’6, yet the impact on the wardrobe is obviously from a fist and suggests far more strength than is possible for a man that size.” Lestrade’s head shot up at this and he walked over to the wardrobe. Sherlock and John both watched as he ran a finger over the impression before placing it in his mouth. John turned to Sherlock in confusion but his friend just shrugged and continued watching the inspector. John looked back at him in time to see disgust mar Lestrade’s features.

“What is it?” the doctor asked desperately. He didn’t care how he got the answers he needed, he just wanted Mary back safe and sound.

“I'm sorry,” Lestrade whispered, looking up at them and they were both shocked by the pain in his eyes.

“What is it?” Sherlock repeated John’s question and the older man turned away from them.

“I told you there was more you had to know.”

“What more is there?” Sherlock asked, vexed. Lestrade sighed and John decided to just interrupt.

“Look,” he said, “You two can have your lovers tiff later. Just tell me where Mary is, Greg.”

“Moriarty has her.”

His words were met with silence before John asked “How could you possibly know that?”

Lestrade opened his mouth to answer but then closed it again. He hadn’t wanted this secret to come out this way but now it seemed he had no choice.

“I'm sorry, Sherlock. I wanted to tell you, but…Mycroft…I couldn’t endanger you.”

“You told me everything else. Why not this?” Lestrade flinched at the emptiness of his voice but forced himself to face the other occupants of the room. John looked confused yet Lestrade could also sense his anguish. Sherlock, though, had gone blank. It made his heart ache to realise that his desire to protect the man just may have pushed him further away again.

“I was going to but…” Lestrade couldn’t finish that sentence. It hurt too much to remember what he may never get again.

“So Moriarty is definitely back? Any Mycroft told you but not us?” John asked. He couldn’t understand what was going on; too many things didn’t add up.

“Sherlock will explain everything John,” Lestrade said confidently and walked back to the front door.

“And where are you going?” Sherlock asked. His voice came out cold but inside he was in turmoil. He was having trouble processing everything that had just happened.

“I’m going to fix this. When you’ve told John everything, go to Mycroft. He’ll explain the rest.”

“You’re not going alone. I'm going to get my wife back,” John said adamantly but Lestrade shook his head at him.

“I'm sorry, John, but it’s just too dangerous. I have to do this alone.” And with that said, he swept from the room. John ran to the door to follow him but the inspector was nowhere to be seen.

“Sherlock,” he said, looking back at his frozen friend, “What’s going on?”

 

 

“Let me get this straight, Greg is a 300 something old vampire who works with Mycroft to protect London. He found out that Moriarty got turned into a vampire so when he left for Paris for a while we went with him so that we’d be safe. And now Moriarty has kidnapped my wife and only Lestrade can find him and get her back. That’s basically what you’re saying?”

“Yes,” Mycroft replied looking across at his younger brother who was curled up in his seat. He had come to Baker Street the minute Sherlock had called and told him what had happened. He had cursed Gregory Lestrade in his head for leaving him to deal with this but he understood why the vampire had; he was the only one who could stop Moriarty now.

“If it comforts you, Sherlock, he is very good at what he does.”

Sherlock looked up at this and Mycroft could see the pain in his eyes, clear as day. He had known that his brother was attached to the detective inspector ever since he helped him break from the drugs but he hadn’t realised it was quite so deeply. Lestrade had told him everything so it seemed that the vampire at least returned his feelings but if this went wrong…Mycroft sighed. He needed something to distract Sherlock from whatever thoughts he was having right now.

“Do you remember the night you OD’d and got attacked?” he asked. Sherlock nodded and John settled back to listen. He was curious about Sherlock’s past but he hated to ask because of what he knew it held.

“I told you that the wound on your neck was from a knife-”

“And I told you that wasn’t true but you refused to tell me the truth,” Sherlock cut in moodily.

“I couldn’t just tell you that a vampire attacked you.” Sherlock and John looked at him in shock so he continued, pleased that no further interruptions seemed to be coming.

“You were attacked and I did tell you that Gregory found you. I just didn’t tell you how quickly he got to you.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened in understanding and he murmured “Oh.”

“What?” John asked.

“I’ve always had one memory from after the attack. Someone comes and stops me losing any more blood. It was Lestrade; it all makes sense now. That’s why he kept such a close eye on me. I thought it was unusual for an officer to keep such a close eye on a victim.”

“Yes, you weren’t the only one to get attached,” Mycroft said and Sherlock snapped his head towards him, surprised that his brother’s voice only held his approximation of fondness. He settled back into his chair as Mycroft and John started discussing what Lestrade was likely to do but he couldn’t focus on the conversation. He allowed himself to become immersed in every memory he had of Lestrade and hoped that the man he loved would be safe.

 

 

Mary’s eyes opened to the sight of a large empty room. It looked like it was part of a disused warehouse or something similar. She tried to move but she found that she was tied tightly to a chair.

“Nice of you to join me,” a voice called out and she twisted her head to look at her kidnapper. Jim Moriarty was sitting on a chair staring at her and she flinched at the predatory smile he gave her.

“What do you want with me?” she asked, annoyed when her voice shook; she needed to be strong if she was going to get out of this.

“Oh, don’t worry honey. I'm not going to touch you.” The smile was terrifying her and she had to curb the desire to shudder. Moriarty seemed to sense her fright though and he dragged his chair closer to hers. She tried to pull away when she saw the blackness of his eyes but she was completely trapped.

“Don’t struggle,” Moriarty told her, “You’ll only make your situation worse.”

“And why’s that?” she snapped. Moriarty looked pleased that she was fighting back but before he could answer her another voice did. Both captor and captive whipped their heads around to the corner of the room, stunned by who stood there.

“Because,” Lestrade said, walking further into the room, “It’ll just make us hungrier.


	11. Chapter 11

Mary stared in shock at Lestrade standing before her. He didn’t look surprised or worried to see her here; in fact, he looked completely at home in the dingy warehouse.

“Greg?” she asked in disbelief. If he was here, shouldn’t John be as well?

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company, Inspector?” Moriarty asked, his voice still mostly light but there was a hint of irritation on the edge.

“I thought I’d pay London’s latest vampire a visit,” Lestrade replied, relaxed.

Moriarty let out a snarl and sprang at him, intending to beat him into submission but he instantly realised he had miss calculated when Lestrade wasn’t where he landed. His feet were kicked out from under him and before he knew it he was lying on the ground, a knee digging into the small of his spine and a hand on the back of his neck to keep him still. He tried to push back against the other man but the inspector was significantly stronger.

“How?” Moriarty managed to bark out and the other man laughed.

“Now, now, Jim, didn’t Ronan explain?” Moriarty let out another snarl and tried again to twist out of the grip on him. “Oh, no, you’re not going anywhere,” was muttered into his ear and he found himself shoved further into the ground. He let out a short cry of pain as the bones in his back creaked at the movement.

“What are you? What are you going to do to me?” Moriarty shouted and let out a gasp as the force on his back let up slightly.

“I'm your worst nightmare and I'm going to show just what happens when you mess with my city.”

 

 

Sherlock and John ran into the warehouse, Mycroft walking leisurely behind them.

“Mary!” John called and ran to his wife who was tied to a chair in the middle of the room.

“John,” she breathed in relief and sagged back as he undid her bindings. “John,” she said as he came and knelt in front of her, “Greg…he was here. I don’t know what happened but-”

“It’s okay,” John said soothingly. “Greg’s on our side.”

“But,” she said, frowning in confusion, “Why did he take Moriarty then? He didn’t attempt to help me or anything; he just grabbed Moriarty and then all of a sudden they were gone. What is going on?” She demanded. John turned to Sherlock to ask for help but his friend seemed to be fixated on her words about Lestrade.

“He took Moriarty? Where? Why? Did you see which way they left?”

“Sherlock!” John shouted, managing to gain his attention, “Don’t worry. We’ll find them.”

Sherlock tried to calm himself down but his best friend could see that he was utterly shaken. John turned to Mycroft and attempted to indicate that he needed to do something. Mycroft let out a put upon sigh and said “Dr. Watson, you should take your wife home and explain everything to her. I'm sure that the both of you will be absolutely discrete.” Here he fixed them with a look that clearly said that if they weren’t, neither of them would be heard from again. They nodded and John helped Mary up and out of the building. Sherlock was still looking unbalanced so Mycroft walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder. His younger brother looked up at him in shock at the sign of affection.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Mycroft said pacifyingly.

“Do you promise?”

Mycroft looked at his younger brother, letting none of his thoughts show on his face. He hadn’t been asked this question by this man since they were children, and it made him feel almost shameful to have to answer with a lie.

“I do.”

The truth was, though, that he had no idea what his vampire comrade was doing. He had been…off…since the news of Moriarty’s return had come. Mycroft would never admit it, but he was worried. He considered the detective inspector a friend, of sorts, and he didn’t want him getting hurt trying to get revenge on the consulting criminal.

“Come,” he told Sherlock, distracting himself from his thoughts, “I’ll take you home.”

 

 

Moriarty woke up to a pain in his neck and his hands chained above his head. A few quick observations told him that he was trapped in the crypt of a church and unable to leave.

“Figured out that you’re stuck?”

He twisted his head to see Detective Inspector Lestrade sitting backwards on a chair, watching him with something akin to hunger in his eyes. His completely black eyes.

“You’re a vampire,” Moriarty said, both awed and frightened. His only experience of another vampire was Ronan and it seemed Lestrade knew all about him.

“I am.” Lestrade smiled at him, but it contained no warmth and made him shiver involuntarily.

“Why does my neck hurt?”

“Because I snapped it.”

Moriarty was impressed by how relaxed the other vampire was but it also scared him. It meant that Lestrade was completely confident his abilities and could probably destroy him permanently both quickly and painfully.

“What are you going to do to me?”

“I told you,” Lestrade said conversationally, “I’m going to show you what happens when I feel that my city is threatened.”

“And what, exactly, happens?” Moriarty asked, pleasantly surprised when his voice came out steady. Lestrade rose from his seat and came and stood in front of him. He tried to hide his body’s shudder as his captor ran a hand almost tenderly down his cheek. From Lestrade’s predatory expression, he failed.

“Well, that’s quite simple,” Lestrade whispered, hand still on his face. “I’m going to pull you apart.”

Moriarty’s eyes widened before the fangs were sunk into the side of neck. He let out a scream at the pain of having all his energy drained by the older vampire. As more and more of his blood was taken, the edges of his vision began to go black.

“Please,” he mumbled, hating himself for pleading. The fangs in his neck were removed and his body, which had gone taut, suddenly hung limp and he was grateful that his hands were tied as they kept him from slumping to the floor.

“Don’t think that I'm stopping,” was whispered in his ear. “I'm only just getting started. I'm going to show you pain Moriarty, and by the time I'm through, you’ll be begging for me to rip your heart out. And I’ll be happy to comply.”

Moriarty groaned as the fangs reattached themselves to the other side of his neck and he couldn’t help the feeling of panic as hands moved to scrape the clothes and skin off of his chest. He fought the urge to just give up; he was Jim Moriarty, Consulting Criminal, for crying out loud. There had to be a way out of this. But as his vision fought to focus again, he realised that he was entirely out of his depth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade's going to get a bit dark now. I won't apologise for his actions though. Except one - look out for it.


	12. Chapter 12

Moriarty came to to the taste of blood on his lips. He quickly lapped it up and groaned when the source was taken away. Lips replaced the blood but they tasted the same so he shoved his tongue between them, eager to take all the nourishment e could. A chuckle came from the lips and he forced himself to pull away, wide eyed. Lestrade was smiling at him, licking the last of the blood from his own lips. The action made Moriarty’s mouth water but he didn’t let himself copy the movement; he couldn’t afford to show such a weakness. Now that he was conscious again, his whole body ached. He cast a quick look over himself and couldn’t help but be impressed at the other’s work as his body was covered in scars. It didn’t look like much but because he hadn’t fed properly it was easy to see what had been done to him. Lestrade had used his nails to gouge marks all over his torso that would have caused life-threatening blood loss, even in a vampire. It seemed that the older man didn’t want him dead just yet though and had fed him just enough to bring him back for the brink. His wounds wouldn’t heal anymore though without more blood which he doubted he was going to get. In fact, he was positive that he was going to receive more fatal wounds before he got another drink.

“Are you ready to continue?” Lestrade asked, running a hand down the partially healed scars. Moriarty couldn’t stop the shiver at the touch and let out a hiss in annoyance. Lestrade only smiled coldly and ran his down him again, causing another shiver. Moriarty cursed his thirst for danger and thrill for violence; now was not the time to get aroused as he didn’t need to give Lestrade more power over him.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked to distract himself from the tingle Lestrade’s hand was causing. “You could just kill me, why drag it out? It doesn’t seem like your thing.”

“That’s because you don’t know me,” Lestrade replied offhandedly. “I don’t let this side out very often but I’ve had a bad week. You’re just an easy target.” Moriarty bristled at that implication.

“I can assure you, I am no easy target!”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me,” Lestrade replied, stepping away from him. Moriarty watched him closely and tried to keep his face neutral when the detective inspector picked up a knife that had been lying on a tomb.

“What are you going to do with that?” he asked, genuinely curious. He knew he probably wasn’t going to get out of this but he did like learning people’s torture techniques.

“I was thinking of carving some pretty patterns into you,” was the reply and Moriarty held in a scream as the blunt edge of the knife was dragged across his skin. He had really underestimated the inspector’s desire for revenge.

 

 

“You need to sleep, Sherlock,” John said as he exchanged exasperated looks with his wife. Sherlock was curled up in his chair, staring out of the window, but John suspected he wasn’t actually paying any attention to the view.

“It’s only been 24 hours Sherlock. We have no idea what Lestrade’s going to do to Moriarty.”

“He’s going to kill him,” Sherlock said definitely. Mary and John exchanged another set of looks before settling down together on the couch, John putting his arm around her. He wanted to pull her close but he wasn’t going to exhibit his relationship in front of Sherlock as the man was obviously falling apart over his own love.

“Even if he does, we don’t know what he’ll do afterwards. He’ll have to discard the body and he may even have to report to this council. We might not see him for days,” John reasoned, “So you need to get some sleep. He’ll be upset to come back and find you like this. You know that.”

Sherlock nodded but didn’t move from his seat. Mary gave John a small smile and said, loud enough for Sherlock to hear, “We’ll just stay here ‘til Greg comes back.” John gave her a grateful smile in return and turned back to look at his friend. He had never seen him quite so rattled, even after the incident at the pool and with the bonfire. It made a small part of him feel warm that Sherlock had managed to develop such a strong attachment. It was just a shame that the recognition had come at such a bad time. _Please Greg,_ he prayed, _just come back. You’re the only one that can help him._

 

 

Moriarty cut off his scream with panting as the knife was taken away from his chest once again. Blood was running in multiple streams down his upper body, setting his nerves on fire. Lestrade was watching him dispassionately, playing with the knife in one hand. Moriarty sent a glare at him but all this got him was a smirk.

“Having fun?” he spat and was rewarded with a chuckle.

“Yes, I am. I'm starting to get hungry again though,” Lestrade said and stepped into his space. Moriarty no longer had the strength to flinch, let alone fight, so he simply bared his neck for the older vampire. This gained him another chuckle and fangs scraped down his neck but didn’t actually bite. Instead, a tongue began to lick the blood from his chest. He let out a moan at the sensation and fought the urge to get closer to that tongue but he had no control over his body anymore.

“I said I would pull you apart,” Lestrade whispered in his ear as hands wandered down to the waistband of his trousers. “I’ve found this way works just as well, if not better, than the scarring. Because you’ll beg for me to continue and I will bring you right to the edge…then rip your heart out.”

 

 

Mycroft looked at the body impassively. Lestrade had really gone to town with it. There were scars on every inch of the naked body and a gaping hole in the chest, through which the empty heart slot could be seen. Said heart was sitting on a tomb with a knife a few feet away. Mycroft sighed. Lestrade had sent him a text, telling him where to find Moriarty’s body but the vampire himself was nowhere to be found. Mycroft was confident that he would surface eventually, but whether he would be the same wasn’t so clear. He hadn’t known Lestrade to lose it quite like this and it worried him that the vampire could be anywhere in London, doing anything. But as much as he hated the thought of Lestrade near anyone, he desperately wanted to find him and drag him back to his younger brother. John had called him with a report of Sherlock’s status and it hadn’t been good.

“Get this place cleared up,” he ordered the team waiting for his decision. “And someone find me Gregory Lestrade.”

 

 

“Okay, I’ll tell him,” John said, and hung up the phone. Both Mary and Sherlock looked at him expectantly.

“It was Mycroft,” John explained. “They’ve found Moriarty’s body.” Sherlock looked at him expectantly, silently begging for the news he truly wanted. John sighed and turned to Mary; he couldn’t give this information to his friend’s face.

“There’s no sign of Lestrade,” he said quietly. “It seems he’s gone into hiding.” Mary walked up to him and gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

A bang down the hall dragged their attention from each other to see Sherlock’s empty chair and his bedroom down shut. John moved to go to him but Mary stopped him.

“Give him some time. He just needs to gain control.” John nodded his agreement and his wife smiled at him. “I’ll make some tea.”


	13. Chapter 13

Sherlock tried to stop his hands from shaking as the cab drove through London. It had been easy for him to sneak out of the apartment underneath John and Mary’s noses. He couldn’t tell them where he was going and they would have been adamant about accompanying him so he had had to leave them behind. He had to speak to Lestrade, and he had to do it alone. A tiny well of warmth bloomed inside him at the knowledge that, even though he hadn’t known all Lestrade’s secrets, he knew where the inspector would be now. It was the advantage of sending a few years being almost completely reliant on someone else; they told you all of their hiding places so that you would never be alone.

The cabbie telling him that they had reached his stop pulled him from his thoughts. He got out, paying the driver quickly, and headed towards the building. It was an abandoned blocks of flats that should have been knocked down years ago but hadn’t due to several licensing problems. Sherlock stared up at the highest windows and frowned. It was possible that Lestrade already knew he was here – or would know soon enough – which could cause him to bolt. He desperately hoped that the vampire wouldn’t; he needed to see him; to know he was alright; just to hold him. Taking a few deep breaths, Sherlock steeled himself to enter the building and take the stairs to the top floor. He wasn’t accustomed to feeling nervous but he couldn’t seem to shake the feeling. Lestrade was not going to welcome him, he was sure of that, but it hurt to consider the alternative to not facing him. _He needs me,_ Sherlock thought, _I have to do this._

 

 

“What do you mean, you lost him?”

“I mean, Mycroft, that he’s snuck out of the apartment and I have no idea where he’s gone.”

“He’s probably gone to Greg,” Mary interjected and John repeated her words to the man on the phone. There was silence for a moment before Mycroft began speaking again.

“You’re probably right. The problem though is that we don’t know where Gregory currently is.”

“You don’t know! I was sure that you’d have found him by now.”

“He has been living in London for two centuries. He knows where he can hide.”

“So what are we meant to do?”

“Hope that he doesn’t kill Sherlock.”

 

 

Sherlock had no trouble getting into the room at the top of the flats – the door was barely shut. He entered as quietly as possible and took the time to look around as he hadn’t been here in years. The place was trashed. All the furniture that Lestrade had accumulated to make the place more comfortable appeared to have been caught in a hurricane; picked up and then chucked back down again. Sherlock felt a twinge of sadness at the sight of the wrecked couch. He had spent several evenings on it, curled up again Lestrade’s side as the drugs wore off. They were dark times spent here but it was where he had learnt most of his knowledge on the detective inspector. He sighed and shook the memories away, making his way towards the bedroom. His hand hovered above the handle indecisively for a while, before he slammed his fears down and swung the door open.

Sherlock tried not to gasp at the sight that greeted him. The only light came from the city lights through the window, bathing the room eerily. The bed sheets were torn and the glass from smashed bottles lay everywhere. Lying face down on the bed, surrounded by scraps of fabric and shards of glass, was Lestrade. Sherlock took a step into the room but stopped at the low growl.

“Lestrade, please let me help,” Sherlock begged. His words were met with another growl, this one slightly louder and more intimidating. He refused to back down though and stepped right up to the bed. The body stiffened but didn’t let out another sound as Sherlock perched cautiously on the edge of the bed.

“Lestrade, talk to me,” Sherlock whispered, reaching a hand out to touch the other man. Before he could make contact though, one of Lestrade’s hands shot out and latched onto his wrist with a bruising grip. Sherlock let out a small whimper as his bones protested at the treatment and this seemed to shake Lestrade, at least partly, out his immobile state. The vampire sat up quickly and cradled Sherlock’s wrist gently, inspecting the marks forming on it. Lestrade let out a whine and bent his head to lap softly at Sherlock’s hand.

“It’s okay. I'm okay,” Sherlock soothed, running his hand through the silver-brown hair. He didn’t truly understand what was wrong with Lestrade but it seemed that what he had done to Moriarty had really shaken him up. Sherlock was lucky that the vampire loved him so much as he had no doubts that if that wasn’t the case, he’d have been torn apart by now.

“Don’t worry Lestrade,” he whispered, his voice soft and loving, “I'm going to take care of you.” His words were met with a low mumble of sounds, like a baby animal asking for forgiveness. Sherlock didn’t dare pull his hand away from where Lestrade was holding it (he knew that anything could easily set the other off; he was dealing with the bestial side of vampirism now) and so stopped his stroking to brush the glass carefully off the bed. He then wrapped the same arm around Lestrade’s shoulders and drew the inspector down to lie on his chest. He made soothing sounds and whispered “I love you,” over and over until the vampire fell asleep, still holding his hand. Sherlock now let out a sigh, exhausted from all the emotions his mind was trying to process. He wasn’t good at comforting – he knew that – but he also knew that Lestrade needed help right now and that he was only one it would be accepted from. He wasn’t just going to abandon Lestrade; he was unreservedly in love with the man, and he didn’t care what anyone said; he was going to make this work. He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to wash over him as his relentless mind began planning ways to convince Lestrade to let him help in any and every way possible.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think this is getting close to being finished, which is just as well as I have to lock myself in revision mode soon.

Sherlock woke to a flurry of movement beside him. He sat up quickly, blinking sleep from his eyes and turned to look at his bed mate…who wasn’t there. His attention was brought to the corner of the room by an animalistic whine. Lestrade was crouched there, his eyes dark, staring at him with a mix of hunger and fear.

“Lestrade, it’s okay. You’re safe,” Sherlock soothed quietly, creeping on his hands and knees to the edge of the bed. A growl stopped him from getting off of it but he moved into a sitting position, his feet on the floor.

“What are you doing here?” Lestrade’s voice was hoarse and shaky. Sherlock decided that he was lucid enough to risk moving closer, but he had barely stood up when another growl rumbled from Lestrade’s throat and forced him back onto the bed.

“I'm here to help,” Sherlock said steadily but this didn’t seem to appease the vampire.

“Get out!” he snapped, folding further in on himself.

“No,” Sherlock responded, his voice full of his usual bravado. “You **need** help, and you know you won’t let anyone else near you.”

“I shouldn’t let **you** near me!”

“But you’re going to,” Sherlock said forcefully before shaking his head slightly. “Please, Lestrade. Just let me help you.”

Lestrade looked up into his eyes and Sherlock held still, refusing to lose eye contact. He needed to prove to Lestrade that he was right and could handle this. He wasn’t prepared to lose the other now that he’d found him. Lestrade just stared unreadably at him, trying to find the answers to questions that neither of them knew.

“It won’t be pretty,” he said finally. When Sherlock only nodded in acceptance, he added “I'm a complete mess! I can’t forget the taste of his blood; I'm craving more and having you sitting there makes me want to rip into your throat. I can’t promise that you’ll be safe.”

“You won’t hurt me,” Sherlock admonished confidently.

“You don’t know that,” Lestrade cried, his voice almost a howl. Sherlock sighed and held out his arms. Lestrade looked at him fearfully, yet shuffled slightly closer. When Sherlock didn’t move, he got up and slowly stepped towards him. Once he was within touching distance, Sherlock took his wrists and guided him to lie on the bed, positioning him so his head was in Sherlock’s lap and one of Sherlock’s arms was around his shoulders. Sherlock then began gently running his other hand through Lestrade’s hair, trying to soothe his small whining sounds. Eventually, the vampire was lying quietly in his lap, hands curled into the fabric of his trousers.

“All you have to do Lestrade is tell me how to help you, and I will,” Sherlock promised. Lestrade let out a shaky breath and nuzzled against the detective’s leg, feeling himself being clutched closer in response.

“Are you sure you want the responsibility? It won’t be easy,” he warned.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied simply.

“Why?” Lestrade asked plaintively. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I love you. I'm not losing you, and you’re not leaving me. So the only other option is to help you.”

Lestrade let a trembling laugh that was more nervousness than actual humour. Sherlock smiled and pressed a kiss to his temple, pleased when the other leaned into the touch.

“So,” he began, “Tell me how to help you.”

Lestrade took a moment to collect his thoughts; his head was spinning from guilt and hunger, making it hard to think clearly but he had to – for Sherlock.

“The bloodlust is the real problem. I’ve fed too much recently, its making my head buzz.”

“How do we get it under control?”

Lestrade allowed himself a smile at the ‘we’ but it disappeared as he replied.

“I need to wear myself out. The last time I lost control, I slept for weeks. I can’t afford to do that now, the Council will be trying to contact me soon and I can’t be a mess for that. If I can completely exhaust myself and then sleep for a day or two, I should be able to break it well enough. You’ll have to keep a close eye on me, help make sure that I don’t feed.”

“Don’t you need to feed though?”

“I shouldn’t for at least a week, and then I’ll have to make sure I stay on a stable diet.”

“I’ll keep an eye on you.”

“Thank you,” Lestrade said, twisting his head to smile gratefully up at the man he love more than anything. He did not know how he came to be so lucky that sure an extraordinary man could actually be so devoted to him. Sherlock smiled back at him but then frowned.

“How are we going to exhaust you? You can’t leave this building.”

“I’m not sure,” Lestrade said, mirroring his frown. “I guess I could run up and down the stairs but that’ll take hours and if the craving gets too much I’ll be able to leave too easily.”

Sherlock contemplated the problem, running through different solutions rapidly. One suddenly sprang to mind but he shoved it vehemently away, trying to stop the heat it created in his stomach from showing on his face. They needed a proper solution, and that one was just selfishness on his part, fuelled by the desire he had held for the other for too long. However, another solution refused to present itself. He looked down at his companion, who was still trying to think of an answer to his question, and cleared his throat hesitantly, causing Lestrade to look up at him expectantly. Sherlock found the words catching in his throat at that look but quickly swallowed his fear. He was only explaining a solution after all; they didn’t have to do it, and if Lestrade said ‘no’ it wasn’t really a rejection, just him saying that it wouldn’t be good for stopping his bloodlust. Sherlock tried to focus on these thoughts but his nervousness must have shown because Lestrade sat up and frowned at him with concern.

“I…I may have…have a solution,” Sherlock stuttered.

“What is it?” Lestrade asked curiously.

Sherlock’s nerves failed him and he realised that he couldn’t **say it**. So he just decided to act. Without warning, he threw himself at Lestrade and kissed him like his life depended on it. He tried to put all of his love and passion into it, willing Lestrade to understand what he couldn’t say. Miraculously, it seemed he managed to. Lestrade kissed back with a fervour that was practically hunger. Sherlock moaned into his mouth, opening his mouth eagerly for Lestrade’s tongue, enjoying the brief battle for dominance before blissfully submitting. All too soon, he found himself lying on the middle of the bed on his back, Lestrade looming over him with hands either side of his head, both of them panting.

“Are you sure?” Lestrade asked breathlessly. Sherlock nodded without hesitation, causing matching smiles to appear on their faces.

“It’ll take a lot to wear me out,” Lestrade said, the smugness hardly hidden.

“Bring it on,” Sherlock challenged, and Lestrade pounced.

 

 

When Sherlock woke several hours later, Lestrade was still completely out of it. Sherlock smirked, thinking of the fun he’d had wearing his lover out. Looking at him now made him have the irrational thoughts that he might never be able to stop smiling and that he should show off the marks that had been left all over his body. He pushed them away, and got silently out of the bed. Hopefully, Lestrade wouldn’t wake up for several more hours but he had to be careful just in case. He didn’t really want to leave the room but he had to check the apartment.

He found plenty of food in the kitchen, swiping a cereal bar from one of the cupboards before heading to the phone in the main area. He paused momentarily, listening for any indication that Lestrade had woken up. There was nothing so he picked up the phone and dialled John’s number. It rang twice before the doctor answered.

“John Watson.”

“John, it’s me-”

“Sherlock?! Where have-”

“Shhhh!” Sherlock hushed him sharply, looking worriedly at the bedroom door. He breathed in relief and said quietly “Good, you didn’t wake him up. You need to speak quietly.”

“Sherlock, what’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Actually,” he chuckled, “I’m fantastic.”

“Why?” Sherlock could picture the frown on his friend’s face.

“I just learnt some interesting facts about Lestrade,” he replied cryptically. “Ones that I will not be sharing with you.” There was silence on the other end of the phone before a curse told Sherlock that John had worked out his meaning.

“Listen,” Sherlock said hurriedly, “I haven’t got time to explain much, you just need to know that both Lestrade and I are safe but we’re not going to about for a couple of days. He’s in pretty bad shape John, but I can help him if we’re not disturbed.”

“I’ll call Mycroft and tell him the situation. Just be careful.”

“Thank you John,” Sherlock said gratefully, never so glad of his friend’s seemingly infinite understanding. He hung up the phone, dropping it back on the table as he returned to the bedroom. He crawled under the covers and felt himself instantly relax as one of Lestrade’s arms wrapped around him reflexively. Sherlock smiled to himself and allowed to sleep to take over once again, this time with no worries weighing on him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finally finished. I hope you all enjoyed this and thank you for reading. X

They spent the next day alternating between sex and sleep. Each time they took a break, Lestrade slept for a little longer until, at 6 o’clock in the evening, after another three rounds, the vampire closed his eyes and said “Don’t woke me up for 24 hours.” Sherlock merely nodded and watched as his lover finally caved into exhaustion; both physical and mental. He himself spent a few hours dozing before getting up and re-engaging his mind. He had spent the day running on pleasure and satisfaction, not thinking about anything but Lestrade. Now though, he had to pull himself together. Sherlock wrinkled his nose as he wrapped a robe around himself. He really needed a shower but they were lucky that the kitchen tap got water at all – Lestrade didn’t really maintain the place; it was just a bolt hole – so he settled for washing himself down with a flannel. After checking that Lestrade was still in a deep sleep, he moved to settle on the couch and picked up the phone. He deliberated over who to call first but he eventually decided on his brother – if he left him much longer then Mycroft was likely to come looking and he didn’t need that, not now that Lestrade was on the final leg of his quick heal. 

“It’s about time you called, brother.”

“Sorry, I’ve been busy.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“John told you,” Sherlock stated with a scowl. He didn’t really need his brother to know just how he was helping the vampire.

“I figured it out. Don’t worry, Sherlock, I'm not mad. I'm actually pleased. This means he isn’t using you as a blood bag.”

His words caused Sherlock to bristle. If he was face to face with Mycroft, his anger would be obvious so he was almost glad for the distance. However, he really wanted to shout at his brother about his assumption.

“He would never hurt me,” he said instead, his voice showing his anger. A sigh was the only response he got before the subject was dropped.

“Do you know when Lestrade will be out in company again? I’ve informed his bosses that he’s doing some work for me.”

“He’s sleeping now but he should wake up tomorrow evening. We’ll be out of here either that night or the next morning.”

“Make it that night.”

“I can’t rush him. And I don’t want to.”

“I understand Sherlock, but the Council is calling for him.”

“No!” Sherlock whisper-shouted, worry pushing aside his irritation with his brother. 

“I'm afraid so. I’ve told them that he’s currently hunting down Moriarty but I need him to get in contact with them.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock murmured, glad that Mycroft seemed to have developed a friendship, of sorts, with Lestrade. If he was willing to lie for the vampire, he must have discovered how helpful the inspector truly was.

“Just get him better,” Mycroft said before hanging up. Sherlock stared blankly at the phone for a while, trying to collect his thoughts. He was worried now though. He knew barely anything about this ‘Council’ so he didn’t know what was going to happen to Lestrade. They may have ordered him to deal with Moriarty, but that didn’t mean they’d be happy that he was dead. Or that Lestrade had played with him beforehand. He didn’t know exactly what Lestrade had done; all he knew was that it had completely shaken the man and left him in a beast-like state. Sherlock let out a deep sigh then dialled John.

“Sherlock, what’s up?” Just the sound of his friend’s voice made him relax and he leant back against the couch as he told the doctor everything – almost – that had happened since they last saw each other. It was refreshing to get it off his chest and he enjoyed the little choking noises John made every time he got too close to being explicit. 

“Thanks for letting me talk, John.”

“It’s no problem. You should get some sleep as well and I’ll see you the day after tomorrow – I expect you’ll spend tomorrow night at Greg’s.”

“I'm not sure. He may go straight to the Council.”

“Na. He’ll just call them and only go straight away if he absolutely has to.”

“I hope you’re right.”

“Get some sleep Sherlock.”

Sherlock smiled as he put down the phone then made his way back into the bedroom. Lestrade hadn’t moved at all and he wasn’t moving but Sherlock wasn’t worried; it meant that he was beating his bloodlust and the guilt. Sherlock couldn’t help the fond smile that appeared as he looked over his lover while settling beside him. He couldn’t remember ever being this happy and it had everything to do with the man beside him. As his eyes slipped shut, he hoped that they would be given time to further cement their new bond – there was so much he still wanted to know about Lestrade. 

Sherlock sat silently, watching Lestrade pace around the room as he spoke on the phone. Sherlock couldn’t hear what he was being told and all of Lestrade’s answers were given in French. He tried not to fidget but he was restless; he needed to know what was going on and Lestrade wasn’t giving anything away on his face and his body was giving too many contradicting signs.

“Well?” he asked, as soon as Lestrade put the phone down on the kitchen counter. They had taken a cab back to the inspector’s flat an hour ago and then the vampire had called the Council without a word to Sherlock. He was desperate now to know what was going to happen.

“I'm to take Moriarty’s body to them tomorrow. They’re organising a private plane.”

“Is that it?”

“They said they were pleased with me for taking him down so they were going to forgive my actions in Paris.”

“That’s brilliant!” Sherlock shouted, leaping up and pulling Lestrade into a dizzying kiss. He responded enthusiastically and they could each feel the other’s smile against their own lips. They eventually pulled apart and just stood, touching at all points.

“Thank you,” Lestrade whispered. “For everything.”

“I'm just relieved that I'm not going to lose you,” Sherlock said honestly. Lestrade lifted the younger man’s chin up so that they were looking into each other’s eyes.

“I'm never letting you go, Sherlock, so you have nothing to worry about. You will never lose me,” he promised. Sherlock smiled at him, conveying all his love with one look which Lestrade quickly returned. They stayed like that for some time, just holding onto each other and smiling, saying everything without saying anything. Ultimately though, Sherlock needed more. Taking Lestrade’s hand, he led him into the bedroom, a seductiveness to his movements that had Lestrade softly growling. Sherlock smirked and let himself be pushed back onto the bed.

“I want you,” he whispered as he pulled Lestrade down beside him.

“I'm all yours,” was breathed into his ear, causing him to smile. He soon stopped though to throw his head back and moan as Lestrade moved slowly down his body, shedding their clothes and pressing kisses to every inch of his skin. He surrendered to the sensations and let pleasure wipe out all coherent thought.

When he woke later, he found Lestrade watching him, his eyes black.

“Lestrade?” he asked, but he wasn’t worried. Those eyes held love as well as hunger.

“I want to bite you,” Lestrade stated as he began kissing and nibbling at Sherlock’s neck.

“Then do it,” Sherlock said, tilting his head to bare his neck further. He felt the teeth elongate into fangs and as they ran down the skin of his throat he couldn’t help but shiver in want and anticipation.

“If I do…it’ll mark you as mine. You won’t turn, but it will tell other vampires that you will.”

“Make me yours,” Sherlock begged. Lestrade stopped his ministrations, making Sherlock whine in protest, to look deep into his eyes.

“There’s no separating from me after this,” he warned. Sherlock wrapped his arms around his shoulders before saying “I never want to.” Lestrade smiled and bent his head to kiss him tenderly. The kiss soon turned heated and Lestrade returned to Sherlock’s neck. 

“I will always protect you,” he said devotedly. Then bit down. 


End file.
